


In The Dark Of The Night

by Angel_of_Mysteries, Awsomeangel, darklordtomarry (das_omen), feriswheel, Nanimok, parapringles, peixe, RenderedReversed, whitedandelions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Anastasia, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Blood and Gore, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Harry is anastasia, Horror, M/M, Magic is present but it is not like magic in the HP verse, Names are not historically accurate, Suspense, This fic messes heavily with historical accuracy, Thriller, Tom Riddle is Dmitry, Unrequited and One-Sided Snape/Lily, Voldemort is Rasputin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-04-24 23:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14365725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_of_Mysteries/pseuds/Angel_of_Mysteries, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awsomeangel/pseuds/Awsomeangel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/das_omen/pseuds/darklordtomarry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/feriswheel/pseuds/feriswheel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok, https://archiveofourown.org/users/parapringles/pseuds/parapringles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/peixe/pseuds/peixe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitedandelions/pseuds/whitedandelions
Summary: Harry was just looking for a place to spend the night.Training to take the place of the missing Romanov prince? Leaving Russia and heading to Paris? If anyone tried to tell him that was exactly what was going to happen when he broke into the old abandoned Winter Palace, he would've laughed in their face.It figures that destiny doesn't take too kindly to that.





	1. Prologue: The Doomed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katsitting (Nekositting)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/gifts).



> Cover art made by the amazingly talented artists Peixe and Stokiometry.  
> Will be updated weekly. 
> 
> Prologue by darklordtomarry

 

 

  
  
The room was heavy with smoke that swirled and shifted with each movement of the occupants. A simple wave of a hand would disturb the air and send ripples floating through the room, growing until they hit the wall and bounced back. Any crossing of legs would kick it into the air, curls rising and painting the room in a pattern of paisley.

It was the type of room that had nurtured business and political deals for centuries, and this one was no different than its predecessors for three men sat in a loose semicircle of chairs, each smoking a pipe.

None spoke, filling the room with an uneasy silence that was thicker than the smoke that surrounded them. They all held influence and power, but none so much as the messy haired monarch with glasses perched on the end of his nose.

James Romanov was the most powerful of the three men. He ruled Russia like his father had before him, and his father's father before _him._ Ruling a kingdom was in his blood, and it was in his son's blood—

—if the boy made it through the night.

For months, no, _years,_ his mind had been focused on his son’s health. His son’s fragile, waning health.

His son had been ill when he was born, weak and pale, breaking his mother’s heart every day as she worried that he would die in her arms. They dread the day he lay white as the snow and with no breath in him.

Making it to three years had been a blessing. No doctor had been able to relieve him of his ailments, they had barely been able to tell them what his ailments _were._

And thus, they had sought out someone _different._ Someone _special._

Many men, mystics, and sorcerers had come before his court and none could heal his son. James had banished some, imprisoned others for being charlatans, and had all but given up hope.

And then one January evening, when the world was still, the river frozen and no moon hung in the sky, and all that had surrounded the Winter Palace had been draped in ice and darkness, there had been a knock on the door.

The bedroom James and his wife shared had been far from those doors, but they had heard it.They had felt the knocking on the door in their bones and they had _known_. They had known that something different awaited them on the other side of that door on that cold January night.

And so, that man—no, that _demon_ —known as Lord Voldemort had entered their homes—their _lives_. He brought the freezing wind and a foreboding presence that weighed down the halls with darkness. A pervading sense of fear that soaked into their very being.

In the three years that Lord Voldemort had been present the servants were uneasy and afraid. Many had left, taking the risk of looking for new employment. Others went missing with only small personal possessions to be found near Voldemort’s room or the furnace.

And so, they would work in pairs, sometimes in groups of three or more, if they knew they were sent to clean _his_ rooms. Otherwise, they would be trapped alone with him and his apprentice.

Despite the fear and the missing servants, James kept him and fed him and let him amass his followers because he kept Hadrian healthy, and if Hadrian was alive and safe, the rest of the world could suffer.

A fortnight ago, Lily had come to him. She had been angry beyond words. She had not cried even though there were tears in the corners of her eyes. A nightmare had shaken her into demanding that he get rid of the serpent faced man.

Nightmares of Voldemort hurting her son had been plaguing her for months. She had looked away at the missing servants, but she had been vigilant about the sorcerer. Never would she let her son be alone with the man. At least eight guards were always present when Voldemort saw the boy, and he only ever saw him with Lily holding Hadrian in her arms.

And three days ago, her worst fears had been confirmed. A guard had spotted Voldemort attempting to lure the young boy down into his labs. It had been stopped and the boy returned to his mother, but since then, the Palace had been in an unofficial lockdown.

She had never trusted Voldemort or his intentions. Had loathed him from the start, despite him healing the boy.

James wished he had trusted her judgement and banished him immediately afterwards.

Initially, when Lily had confronted him about Voldemort he had sent for Sirius, his longtime friend from boarding school and Hadrian’s godfather. Sirius had been nearby when Voldemort had attempted to lure Hadrian away and had drawn his gun on him.

Voldemort’s apprentice though had managed to defuse the situation a bit but still, the Dark Lord could tell the way the wind was blowing. His followers had amassed on the edge of the grounds, their eyes blank, their skin grey, and their cheeks hollow.

A war was coming between the two opposing sides and James couldn’t act. Not yet. Couldn’t act until Lily and Hadrian were safely away from Russia, and so life continued. It was tense, everyone watching everyone, and tonight he felt that it would come to a head.

Downstairs a ball was being held in Sirius’ honour and Voldemort had been invited, was downstairs already, surrounded by soldiers.

A cough which disturbed the air, sending it into spirals, pulled James from his thoughts and he looked to Sirius, “Speak.”

Sirius sat up, throwing his long hair out of his face and settled James with a heavy scowl, "He's been gaining more followers and is using your name, your connections to do so. That rabble of his at the gates, and it’s not just him, there is more dissent spreading through Russia. He is the just the tip of the festering boil. Lance him.”

James tapped his pipe ashes into a tray, before entwining his fingers across his stomach, "I know." He didn't make eye contact with either of them, merely looked at a portrait of his family hung on the wall across from him. "Trust me. I know. I think about it every time I see him, every day he is near my son and wife. In my home, in my kingdom. He has become a disease that lives in the heart of this garden.”

There was a small sound to the side as Remus returned one of James’ many Fabergé eggs back in its resting place. “You must banish or have him executed soon.” He said, speaking for the first time since they had entered the room.

James attempted to refrain from raising his hackles at Remus and instead shot him a dour look, looking every bit the arrogant king. "You think I do not realize this? That I don't feel his presence pushing on me? Drowning me as he seeks my throne, my power? I welcomed him into my home and he has saved my son," James pushed his glasses up his nose, "He knows that the time is approaching, but he is still a sorcerer of immense power and I fear for Hadrian’s life if I were to banish him with my son still here. The two of you are not due to leave for another week.”

"Hadrian will do well in Paris, but he will miss you,” Sirius said as he took a draw on his pipe, steering the conversation away from Voldemort.

“He will have his mother and his nannies with him, he will be fine. He will have the two of you as it is. Although, I will expect your return in one-year time.” James licked his lips. Curled around his spine was fear and anxiety, heavier than lead and weighing him down. They would return with his son, but only if there was not a civil war happening.

Sirius leant forward, resting his hand on James’ knee and giving it a reassuring squeeze before returning to his seat, "He's not quite ready for his Grand Tour, but I would be happy to give him a minor version of it.” He looked away, his eyes on Remus, “If any illness was to befall Hadrian, I know of a mystic priest in England. He would gladly make his way to France to aid him."

James frowned heavily, "You speak of Dumbledore. He refused to come to St. Petersburg to help." No one refused James Romanov, but this old man that lived in the lake country of England had not taken the offer. James had cursed his name for returning the money that had been sent to entice him to come to Russia.

Sirius shrugged dismissively, "He is an old man and the trip is long. Crossing the channel is less taxing on the elderly.”

James replied with a grunt. He and Sirius had met as children in the Warwick boarding school and had fostered a close friendship over the years. It had been difficult to convince James' father to allow a disgraced minor noble from England to be his son's godfather, but he had been firm and gotten his way. Even years later it amused James that it had been harder to make Sirius Hadrian's godfather than for him to marry a peasant. But it was an excellent choice with Sirius, he knew that Sirius would kill for Hadrian. Would die for him.

A knock on the door sounded throughout the room, the door opening before they had a chance to respond let them know that it was Lily. Her normally beautiful face transformed with a frown as she eyed the heavy smoke and the three men in the room. Hadrian stood next to her, holding her hand tightly. His green eyes already on blue and white Fabergé egg that he had been fond of ever since it had come into the Palace.

"Sirius, this is your party. How are we to celebrate if you are not present?" The hand on the hip denoted that she would not be allowing them to loiter in the room for much longer.

"Lily darling, you are cruel," Sirius stood up with a smile on his lips and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, "You want me to go mingle with all these Generals and Captains from the war? Wouldn’t it be better to let me stay up here and not risk me teaching Hadrian some fun French swear words like _merde_?”

"You deserve to suffer, and remember, I caught you teaching him to say _putain_." She said with a small quirk of her lips, trying to hide any amusement with him.

A smacking sound rang out as Remus hit Sirius’ arm, “Bad Sirius!” Remus chided, "Lily, I apologize for him. I don't even know why he's allowed out of his bedroom."

"Because eventually the wallpaper would come to life and drive him out." James answered and stood, "Lily is right. Let us join the party."

Taking his wife’s hand in his own, they made their way out, a triumphant smile on Lily's lips as they descended down the grand staircase and into the crowds. James watched, ever vigilant, to see the grotesque face of Lord Voldemort amongst the crowd. For once the man wasn't in the centre of the room, holding his own private court with his followers.

No, today he was being well-behaved and hidden in a corner, talking to his apprentice, but his red eyes were following Hadrian, as the boy broke away from his mother and went to play with the other children.

He would send Lily and Hadrian away and, in that time, he would banish Voldemort. Banish him or kill him.

Whatever needed to happen... it would happen.

* * *

 

The hours passed.

Young Hadrian was curled up next to a potted plant, his face pressed into the wall, a small strand of drool falling onto his shirt, but Snape paid him no mind. He was not interested in the child. His eyes had only ever been for Lily.

The Dark Lord had left him in his corner to take his place in the centre of the crowd. To gather his followers and influence Romanov into allowing him more power or to beg his pardon for the incident in the corridor a few days past.

It had been an unfortunate mishap, the boy wandering the palace and the Dark Lord finding him alone and attempting to guide him back to his parents. It was an act of altruism on the Dark Lord’s part as far as Severus was concerned. The man wasn’t what one would consider _kind._

Lily's laughter rang throughout the room and Severus made his way to her. Summoned like a moth to the flame. She was so bright, and he was a creature of the dark, forever enthralled by her flame. She had allowed him and the Dark Lord into her home, to be warm and not fighting amongst the frontlines.

It was more than he could ask for.

He watched the Tsar and his so-called _friends._ They were on the other end of the room from him, their poses rigid and their eyes watchful, but still talking amongst other nobles, officers from the army and the entire variety of sycophants that were available.

The Tsar and his friends were watching Voldemort now, oblivious to Severus. It was safe to approach.

Severus slid through the crowd, his cold looks and brute force approach had had people stepping out of his way. He may not have been well known but, as Voldemort's apprentice, he had earned a certain amount of respect and fear for the mere association with the man.

Any who crossed the serpent faced man had left their mortal coil shortly after.

Even Romanov feared the Dark Lord.

Voldemort had healed the boy long ago and had been rewarded handsomely, though every few months the child would lapse, and the Dark Lord would fix his ailment. Severus suspected that the Dark Lord would use his magic to make the boy sick again, just to heal him, to keep family wrapped around his long, bony finger.

They had used him for more than healing the boy though, Romanov had asked his advice with the Eastern Front and with the other political issues and the Dark Lord had aided them, if his advice helped or made it worse, the only person to know was the Voldemort.

Snape didn’t care about any of it, he was near Lily and there was nothing that he wouldn't do to stay close to her.

_Nothing._

Lily was facing away from him, her hair red hair falling down her back in a cascade of deep red, the cream coloured dress accentuating its fiery hue even further.

She was divine.

One of her courtiers grimaced as he approached, they loathed him for his power, his higher social standing even though he was as common as muck. The woman whispered into Lily's ear, announcing his presence.

Lily turned, inclining her head with a small, teasing smile, "Severus! Decided to come out of your corner and socialize?"

He took a glass from a passing servant and swirled the wine, watching the crimson fluid within become a spiral, "My master thought it best that we did not draw the attention away from your guest of honour."

Lily’s smile drew his eye away from the wine, it pierced him to his soul. Seeing her smile was something that made his heart soar and made him feel less like that scum that he was, but this one, while still stunning contained small hints of wariness, "That is quite thoughtful of Lord Voldemort. I'm sure Sirius appreciates it."

Severus shrugged, his obsidian eyes scanning the room. Being near Lily had not made him less vigilant in his paranoia, but he made sure to check where all the players were. The Dark Lord was speaking with a member of his devout; across the room, a serving boy with dark hair and dark eyes was watching Voldemort; and dead centre, between those two, was Romanov with his deep brown eyes staring at Severus, his handsome face transformed with dislike at the sight of him near Lily.

Snape raised his glass in a faux toast.

"Stop teasing." she chided, "You know how jealous he can be. I doubt you want to be thrown out on your ear.”

A snort escaped his nose, "I don’t believe I would." He hadn't turned back to Lily, instead, his eyes were on the servant who had been staring at the Dark Lord. He seemed familiar, but Severus could not place where from.

The servant was frowning as the Dark Lord dismissed the follower he had been talking to, leaving the Dark Lord alone in the middle of the room. The servant’s gaze followed the dismissed man as he exited the room, and likely the Palace entirely.

Severus’ attention moved from the young serving boy and to the Dark Lord himself. He stood alone in the middle of the room, a growing ring of space around him as he stood with his hands pressed together and his head bowed. No one would dare approach him.

There had been an increase in odd behaviour from him in recent months. There had been the attempt to lure the boy away recently, and Severus had noticed that he had also taken to lurking near the boy’s room. The interest in he had shown in the child was abnormal, as were his late-night walks in the gardens where he would hiss to serpents that seemed to be impervious to the chill of winter.

Severus had not had the nerve to tell Lily or Romanov of the Dark Lord's snake Nagini, or the fact that she seemed able to speak to Lord Voldemort. Romanov would likely banish them without a second thought.

There was only a certain amount of queerness that they could tolerate from any sort of sorcerer. Even the one that healed their son.

Perhaps the watchful servant was also to keep an eye on The Dark Lord and not just passing drinks around.

His attention then continued onto the spot where the child slept. The wet spot on his shirt from his drool had grown. Severus was ready to suggest that the boy be taken up to his rooms when he realized that something was _wrong_.

Instead of the wall hitting the floor in a clear line, a sharp corner, there was a _bulge_ and it _moved._

With her pattern, she nearly blended into the wall, but there was no other explanation for it. It was the snake Nagini, and she was moving towards the child.

The shattering of crystal echoed through the room, Severus barely had time to register that it was his glass that made the noise. He ran towards the boy and the approaching serpent, the serpent that was so much closer to the child than Severus was.

Severus didn't think, he didn't care what was happening nor the ramifications of his actions. All that was in his mind was getting to the boy. His pounded against the carpeted floor and his pulse roared in his ears but he was still too far away.

Lily’s scream cut through the air, echoing through the room. If it was his abrupt departure or if she had seen the snake approach her son.

He was the only person in the palace to know of the Dark Lord’s serpent, for him to unveil her in such a manner was tantamount to an act of war.

They had crossed the Rubicon and Severus already knew which side he had chosen.

An explosive report sounded through the room, the bullet travelled over Severus’ head, so close that he felt the burn on his scalp and embedded itself in the ceiling.

Snape froze.

James Romanov swung the gun from Severus to the snake. "Stay away from my son!" He commanded.

"Let me banish the snake!" Severus shouted, but didn’t move. His gaze shifted from Romanov to Nagini, to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord who remained completely still, looking up through hooded lids.

Nagini was reared back and ready to strike, a mere two feet from the boy, but the firing of the bullet and the yelling had clearly disturbed her from making that fatal bite.

Black and Lupin had their own guns drawn; Black aiming down sights at the Dark Lord and Lupin had levelled his aim with Snape.

"Get rid of the snake!" James shouted, his voice echoing through the mostly silent hall.

There were shouts and the sounds of running as the other guests fled, but where Severus was, it was like a still life.

No one moved.

"Voldemort, get rid of the beast! We have seen you with it!”

They had? Severus had been willing to swear that only he had known of her. Had the Dark Lord grown careless with his secrets? Had he lost control of the beast or was she acting on his order?

His arm was gripped tightly, Lily’s nails digging in, “Severus, please stop him! Save my son!”

Voldemort’s voice cut through the air, “There will be no stopping me from wiping out the Romanov line! This is a time of revolution and change. The monarchy is a relic of the past and we are at the dawn of new age. The Romanov’s will fall like the Bourbons. Nagini! Strike!” The Dark Lord flung his arm out, a formidable force of air blasting people away.

Severus stumbled backwards, ignoring Lily as she fell to the ground. He flicked his wrist, banishing the serpent towards the Dark Lord. His entire body shook as he ran forward, ignoring the gun pointed at him as he stood in front of the still unconscious child, blocking him from Voldemort’s view.

Nagini landed with a hard thump, at Voldemort’s feet and reared back, hissing violently.

"You will not hurt this family!" Lily screamed as she climbed to her feet, a wine bottle in her hand. “Get out you monster!” She threw the bottle with great force at the Dark Lord, and it impacted, shattering on his face.

The look that the Dark Lord levelled on her made him shake. Blood and wine dripping down his face, his gaze murderous. He raised a long, thin finger, and touched one of the larger gashes on his face, "I will destroy this family.” He said, his voice low and dangerous.

"Get out of here! Get out of St. Petersburg! Get out of Russia tonight or I will have you hunted down and killed like the dog that you are!" James shouted, his gun still pointed at Voldemort. Nagini had climbed up him and was resting on his shoulders.

"There is nothing you can do! By the unholy powers vested in me, I banish you, with a curse! Mark my words: you and your family will die tonight! I will not rest until I see the end of the Romanov line forever!"

"Guards! Kill him!” James commanded.

Voldemort smirked and opened his arms in a grand display, the doors and windows slammed open, letting in the wind and the freezing winter air, knocking the guards and the military officers off balance once again. "Nagini. Kill."

In a great act of highly powered muscles, the coiled strength that was within the beast that Voldemort had created, she leapt from the Dark Lord’s shoulders and to Romanov.

Snape didn’t have time, there was nothing he could do as the serpent buried her teeth in the Tsar’s throat. She bit him repeatedly as he stumbled, and then fell to the floor.

Blood pooled underneath the fallen monarch’s body, staining the carpet as it spread out. Guards were too afraid to approach, and the snake kept biting, ripping his throat open and filling his body with venom.

Lily’s scream as she rushed towards her husband would haunt his soul. The agony and pain that was contained within that single vocalized sound of misery was like a knife in his very heart.

Black and Lupin shot at the snake, but their bullets failed to penetrate her skin, several of the military men shot at Voldemort but he was able to deflect them with an unsettling ease.

Behind him the boy stirred, probably waking from the sound of his mother.

"Severus, kill the boy!" Voldemort commanded, turning his red-eyed gaze to him, clearly expecting obedience.

Lily stopped, changing her path to run behind Severus and grabbed her son, holding him tightly in her arms. Huddled against the wall. "Sev... no, please. I beg you.” Tears streamed down her face as she sat there, curled around her son.

"I won't." With barely a second thought he summoned up his power and flung it at Voldemort, sending his master and the serpent flying through the open doors and into the night. The guards began to fire at the Dark Lord, but Severus doubted that any of them would be able to strike true.

The strong wind stung his face and whipped his coat around, the sharp slaps of the cloth slapping his legs as he raced through the gardens. He could hear the guards behind him, following him as they chased the Dark Lord towards St. Petersburg. If they were not quick, they would lose him in the twisted, dark winding alleyways that littered the city.

Nagini fled elsewhere as Severus chased after the Dark Lord, who was heading towards the gates that had his rabble on the other side.

Normally they stood still, their clothes swaying in the wind, barely moving except to leave briefly when a member of the guard told them to shove off, but now they were rabid, flailing and screaming a revolting cacophony into the night air.

The gates fell under their strength and Severus saw for the first time what had become of the missing servants, the missing people of St. Petersburg. Their skin black and blue with frostbite, eyes an unseeing white that spun wildly in their sockets as they howled, clawing across the ground like a demented human rat king.

Voldemort ran through the group, which parted like the red sea before reforming into a writhing mass of dead flesh, and sharpness that promised a painful death. They surged forwards, towards Severus and the guards, moving inhumanly fast, scarpering along the ground, some on all fours, their limbs bent at unnatural angles, turning them into the stuff of nightmares, stuff that myths would be based on.

Snape felt a grip on the back of his coat and he was yanked back, into the crowd of guards, who had their guns drawn, aiming around him into the thrashing group of monsters that did not so much as threaten death but promise it.

The report of guns exploded around him and the scent of acrid gunpowder assaulted his nose. He crouched down, attempting to escape the deafening sound that robbed him of his hearing.

The Dark Lord stood in the distance, watching triumphantly as his mob descended on the guards.

Flesh ripped and tore, rending under their supernatural strength, their icy fingers digging into skin, piercing through the flesh, into the muscle and down into the bone, before ripping the men apart.

One of the younger guards fell to the ground, his eyes twitching madly as he stared at Severus as if begging him to help heal his masticated throat. Blood gushed out, spraying into Snape’s face and mouth, the taste bitter on his tongue. There was nothing he could do, there was no way to stop the bleeding or heal the missing part of his throat.

“DO SOMETHING!” The scream of the Captain of the Guard cut through the din, through the ringing of his ears and Severus snapped from his haze.

He wouldn't let Lily or her son be hurt by him. He wouldn't allow her to suffer whatever madness his master had planned. Romanov was dead, but he would stop Voldemort from harming Lily.

Drawing the power that he had been granted by Voldemort, he focused on it, coalescing his passion and rage into all he could manage at that moment.

Fire.

It bloomed forth, the heat melting the snow around them, melting the bodies of Voldemort’s rabble and the bodies of the dead and dying guards. It twisted about like a serpent, striking at anything that didn’t live. The scent of burning, bubbling flesh assault his senses once again, but soon it became nothing as the fire rendered the bodies to nothing but ash.

Severus locked eyes with the Dark Lord as he climbed to his knees. Red locked with black and he could see the rage, the anger that seethed within the sorcerer. No one betrayed Lord Voldemort and lived.

If they both lived through the night, the Dark Lord would surely rip the power from him, would cut off and deny Severus the magic he had granted him those years ago. Would block him from accessing the infinite powers that flowed through their fingertips, the lost arts would continue to be lost.

A thunderclap of sound exploded near Severus’ ear, and he watched as the Dark Lord was struck by one bullet that tore through his torso, and then another, and another.

Voldemort fell back, collapsing into the snow.

Severus felt his breath stop.

Was that was all that was needed to stop him? No ancient ritual?

Those thoughts were banished from his mind as he saw the Dark lord stir, scramble to his feet and begin to run towards the city.

Snape and the guard began to chase. This would be their chance to stop him. He was vulnerable in this moment. The wounds surely causing him a great deal of pain.

A strong gust of wind hit his back, his feet lifted from the ground for a moment he was certain that he would be lifted into that night winter night sky, but no, Severus remained on the ground. In the distance though, the Dark Lord began to _fly._

Voldemort was nearly a hundred yards ahead of Snape. The wind was too strong for him to be able to throw fire at the man, it was more likely to come back and kill him instead.

They were going to lose him tonight, and he would come back to wreak vengeance on him and Lily.

The report of a gun echoed near his head, again. Severus dropped down, covering his head and looking back to the guards. They had dropped to their knees and had begun shooting their rifles at the fleeing form in the sky.

Severus watched, a savage smile on his lips, Voldemort’s plan to take to the skies had bitten him on the ass. These men were veterans of the war and expert marksmen.

Blood blossomed in the sky in a spray reminiscent of fireworks as the bullets penetrated the Dark Lord’s body. They riddled his body and soon he watched the dark silhouette fall to the bridge.

The dull thump of his body hitting the flagstones echoed through the night.

The Captain of the guard, the one that had pulled Snape from the rabble at the gates, ran alongside him, “Will you be able to kill him?”

Snape frowned, he didn’t know. “I hope.”

They all knew the rumours, that Voldemort was centuries old, that he had been there for the Renaissance, the holy wars with the Turks, Cromwell’s rise, that he was involved in the Reign of Terror and the Jacobite uprising, that he had been seen with Napoleon, the November Uprising. Some said that he had been in Sarajevo. That he was an omen of death and strife.

Snape knew that he had not been in Sarajevo, they had been in Tuscany during that time, but the others? Only Voldemort would know.

Could his presence here be the prelude to another war?

That wasn’t what Severus was truly worried about, he could get out of a war zone, but could he free Voldemort of the mortal coil? He had betrayed him by siding with the Romanov family and now Voldemort would come for his blood as well as Lily’s.

The Dark Lord had cursed the family and the only thing that could quell it was Voldemort’s demise.

The fresh snow was crunched beneath their boots as they arrived at the spot the Dark Lord had fallen from the sky. Blood stained the snow and a messy, uneven path was carved through it as if the Dark Lord was disoriented.

They slowed as they chased him, ready to fend off an attack, the building leaned in and cast the road into darkness that allowed for numerous crooks and crannies for Voldemort to hide in. They were ready for him to strike, they couldn't trust that he would remain weak. He was a sorcerer of supreme power.

Severus' hands shook as he began to hear the strained breathing that echoed through the night air, a shaky rattle escaping from torn lungs and flesh, it sounded and smelled like an abattoir as the animals were killed. Thick cloying blood, the scent of freshly slaughtered animals, organs and that scent that desecrated all the dead as they released in one final insult in death.

The pained rasps were louder than the sound of rushing water of the river they were approaching.

Leaning, a hand holding the railing of the bridge tightly, a pool of blood staining the snow, was Voldemort. Severus' ink coloured eyes locked with the Dark Lord's red ones and he knew that if he failed, not only would Lily and Hadrian die, he would die as well, in the most painful and prolonged fashion that would have him begging for the release of death.

Severus would not fail.

Could not fail.

His magic could not defeat Voldemort's. His power came from him, they would have to rely on mortal weapons. With a flick of his wrist, he and the guards began to approach the weakened man.

The clouds parted and bathed the bridge in light and Severus could see the extent of the Dark Lord’s injuries. The coat was shredded and his clothes beneath were torn, he could see open wounds caused by the bullets in his torso, purple and red bits of innards threatened to spill from his abdomen; the arm that held his internal organs in was shattered at the wrist, the hand barely hanging on except by a string of flesh.

The Dark Lord shifted a bit, looking disoriented, and Severus saw something that made bile rise into the back of his throat, illuminated by the moon was Voldemort’s head where instead there had been a smooth bald scalp there was instead a gaping hole in his skull which left his brain visible.

The wind picked up and brought the scent of blood and death even stronger than before, the biting dry cold attacking the back of his throat, ensuring that he could taste the coppery humour.

Severus’ breath caught in his throat, this would be their only chance to strike.

He stepped behind the line of guards, "Shoot him."

The guards that still had their rifles dropped to their knees, the ones with pistols drew them and as one unit, began to fire at Voldemort.

The bullets moved at high speed en masse towards that Dark Lord but instead of penetrating and rending his body to shreds, they stopped in midair, and floated, unmoving.

A high-pitched hissing was escaping from the Dark Lord’s lips, it wavered in tone and Snape knew that death was coming.

He dropped to the ground, grabbing the back of the coats of the men at each side of him as the bullets reversed direction, as the lead balls returned and rattled the bodies of the men surrounding them.

The dead fell in heaps around Snape, his hands still on the other men, the Captain and some lieutenant, holding them in place.

The Dark Lord was more powerful than Severus had ever expected.

Voldemort approached, his steps uneven and broken like a marionette with twisted strings. "You disgusting, low-born traitor." His words slurred and were barely audible over the sound of his struggling, punctured lungs.

Snape stayed low, with the two men, and watched one of the men next to him, who had a wound that went straight through his neck, choke to death on his own blood. The winter air cooled them quickly and Severus could feel the blood seeping into his coat begin to adhere him to the ground as it froze.

"You low-born filth." Voldemort hissed, swaying, "You traitorous scum, I should have let you die in the snow when I saw you." He stumbled over his words and nearly fell when he began to step through the bodies towards Snape.

His fingers were nearly frozen but he released the two men and began to slowly reach out, across the ground to grasp the barrel of a rifle. It’s metal biting into his hand with a viciousness that was only offered by the Russian winters.

Severus had barely used a gun before and the years of mastering his use of magic had taken the toll on his ability with the weapon.

Thankfully, Voldemort wasn't focused on the ground where Severus and the men lay, but instead looking at the sky, "The boy should be dead. I cannot allow him to live..." The blood from his open wounds sprinkled with each movement onto Severus.

Ignoring the pain as Severus sprung to his feet, he grasped the rifle like it was a club, and swung the butt of the gun up and into his former master’s face. The weapon slamming under his chin with a deafening crunch, blood exploding out from under his jaw.

Voldemort crumpled to the ground in a heap.

The Captain of the Guard, the lieutenant, and another two men hastily climbed to their feet and together as a group they descended on the felled sorcerer. Striking him with their weapons, and boots.

Severus struck the butt of the rifle at the Dark Lord's head, attempting to open it, make it worse, to kill him, to end him.

Thud! A red-eye popped out from its socket.  

Thud! His jaw shattered, sharp white teeth sprayed out, landing in the bloodied snow.

Thud! With a crunch, the cartilage in his esophagus shattered, breaking his neck open.

Thud! The other eye burst, fluid spraying onto Snape’s hand.

Thud! Bone and brain matter erupted out like a violent expressionist painting across the bridge.

Crunch! The gun broke through the skull completely, shattering it in an explosion of force, leaving nothing but broken bone that clung to stringy flesh and all the viscera therein.

A gurgling, bubbling sound escaped through the torn and damaged esophagus, all that remained of the Dark Lord’s head, and Snape’s tight sweat-clicked gripped on the rifle faltered. He and the rifle fell to the ground with a dull clunk.

His knees hit the bricks, and tears filled his eyes, as the gravity of what he had just done hit him.

He had betrayed his master.

Had killed him, putting an end to him like one would a feral dog. What lay on the ground before him in a smear of red and purple was what remained of his master, the man who gave him magic, who saw potential in a street rat orphan that had dared to approach him. Voldemort had been cruel and callous to his pain, but he had still taught Severus everything that he had known. Had fed and clothed him, had taken him through Europe and let him taste the finer things in life and he had betrayed him.

Bile rose in his throat and he turned his head to the side, expelling the contents of his stomach onto one of the guard’s boots.

The man stepped back, grimacing, a sneer on his face at the sight.

“There are worse things to see and do, boy.” The Captain said, giving Snape’s shoulder what he probably thought was a reassuring squeeze. “This man uses dark magic. Is he truly dead?”

Snape shook slightly, and looked up at the Captain's moustached face, it was lined and tired, he was covered in a fine patina of sweat. “I don’t know.”

He remembered the tales his mother had told, old wives tales, and the ones his father had imparted in him when he wasn't too drunk to care and not drunk enough to hit him, that destroying the head or heart of the beast was the only way to kill a monster permanently.

In the dark of the night, with winds howling about them under a Samhain blood moon, the Dark Lord had told Severus that he had made a bargain for immortality, that he would never die.

And Severus believed him.

He pressed his shaking hand against the Dark Lord’s torso. It was masticated; hardly anything was in one piece with flesh, bone, sinew, organs ground together like the rending section of an animal processing plant.

But still, despite it all, there was a pulse.

A chill lanced through his heart, but it was so much more than the frigid air, it was the cold realization that his master was very much alive and would one day seek retribution against him.  

A sort of retribution that Severus dare not imagine.

“He lives,” Severus answered with a shudder that wracked his chest.

A glint of black in the distance caught his eye and he knew what to do. “Lift him. I have a plan.”

The five of them abandoned the dead and dying guards, there was nothing they could do for them now, with two of the guards carrying the sack of meat that had been one of the most important men in all of Russia, and the other two keeping watch, with Severus leading the way.

A flick of his wrist and the cast iron gates of the cemetery opened, sweeping the snow away. They dragged their burden behind them, blood and pieces of Voldemort leaving a trail of fleshy breadcrumbs straight out of a twisted fairy tale.

This monster, just a few short minutes ago, had been one of the most powerful men in all of Russia, but now, because of a fit of insanity, a fit of something... had doomed himself, had killed Romanov and attempted to wipe out the entire line.

Snape cursed under his breath. He was doomed. They were all doomed.

They would return to the palace and he would be captured and executed by the guards. He was Voldemort's servant. He had been his thrall. He had done as the man had asked again and again and he had allowed Romanov to die.

He was fucking doomed.

Severus was so wrapped in his thoughts of his future, or lack thereof, that he didn’t hear the guards behind him whispering until the Captain touched his shoulder.

“What?” Snape snapped, glowering at them.

"He's moving." One of the guards whispered, his voice cutting through the silence that had surrounded them

Snape had felt Voldemort’s magic flare in spurts for the past few minutes as they made their way to the centre of the graveyard. It had to be the centre that bound him, "We're almost there. If he moves again shoot him, but there isn’t much he can do without a _head._ ” He chided.

The guard nodded weakly and they carried on.

In the dead centre of the cemetery lay a mausoleum of black marble, no snow was on its roof despite the weather of the night, like it was ready to be the vestibule of Voldemort.

He didn’t question it. He knew in his heart that was where the Dark Lord would lie.

The door was locked, and a chain of heavy iron held the doors closed in a cross.

Iron.

If Voldemort was something outside of this world, iron would help.

Snape waved his hand and the lock opened, the chain rattled away from the building and settled on his shoulders, their cold weight nearly crushing him.

The doors swung open without a sound. Darkness beckoned.

He slid his hand into his coat pocket where he stored most of his weapons and pulled out four long iron nails, passing them to the guards. "Attach him to the wall. One in each hand and one through his elbows."

He would lose it all if he failed and Voldemort would come back and kill Lily. He would kill her and Severus would never get to see her smile again.

It had all gone wrong.

The guards obeyed, two lifting Voldemort up, ignoring as his innard spilt out onto the ground, one holding his limbs in place and the other hammering a nail through his hand with the butt of his pistol.

It took twenty minutes to fully pin him to the marble wall, and during that time Severus focused on imbuing the chain he had ripped from the door. In order to contain a being such as the Dark Lord Voldemort, Severus needed something that could match his power. A curse, he decided one powerful enough to bind the Dark Lord and protect the Romanov line. As with any curse he had to create a way to end it, but the chance that it would be fulfilled with slim.

Prayer had never been a part of his life before but now he prayed for Lily and for this to work. He would lose his ability to wield magic after he bound the doors.

He gave an end of the chain to two of she sweating guards. "Wrap it around his neck and attach it to the brackets."

They obeyed without a word, a noose falling on the Dark Lord’s throat and biting into the flesh. Each side of the chain was attached to mirrored brackets.

The men stepped back and took in their handiwork. He hung there limply but Snape could still feel the magic, the pulse of him within the air.

"Will it work?" The Captain asked, his breath fogging the air.

"The iron nails should bind him if he's an otherworldly being, and a curse has been placed on the chain that will hopefully, contain him."

The Captain nodded, "We have locked a monster away. If only we could avenge the Tsar.”

"His wife and son still live," Snape whispered, he didn't know if it was true, but he prayed it was so.

They looked at the still maimed Dark Lord for a moment. The weight of the night upon their shoulders.

A hiss and a wet exhalation was all the warning Snape had.

He spun on his heel, the lieutenant was dead and the Captain was bleeding out. Nagini was attached to his throat, pumping him full of venom.

Severus barely had a moment to breathe as she launched herself at him; fangs dripping venom on his face and coat.

Panic surged through his body, the magic lashing out and blasting her into the mausoleum with the body of the Dark Lord.

The two guards ran to the door and pushed them shut, locking the serpent within.

"Hold it shut!" Snape commanded as he summoned the magic the Dark Lord had granted him. He chanted, focusing on sealing the building, binding it and warding it to contain the darkness within.

To allow it to be Voldemort’s final resting place.

They could hear Nagini thrashing and spitting against the door. She would not escape, not unless she grew thumbs.

His hands shook, sweat freezing to his skin. Snape’s vision darkened, and he fell back against a tombstone. He sat there, the guard standing next to him, his eyes wide and the white's showing.

"What do we do?" He whispered.

"We must return to the palace." Snape stood shakily and gripped the man’s arm. “We must be quick.”

* * *

 

People with white eyes and grey skin and blue lips and sharp teeth and claws on their hands had come into the room and they had been burning and screaming but they hadn’t screamed because there was nothing coming from their throats but Hadrian could feel the screams he could hear their pain as if they were tearing into him and he and cried and hidden under his mothers skirts and cried.

Hadrian had cried and held onto her leg as everyone screamed and she had pulled him along and bullets had flown through the air. The only thing to stop his sobbing was when he felt the smallest of gasps from his mother and she fell, taking him with her.

Someone had run over him, trodding on his hand and his mother’s leg and he had cried out but she hadn’t moved.

She was just sleeping and didn’t feel it.

Hadrian knew about sleeping and not feeling pain. The snake man would visit him in his dreams and hurt him but when Hadrian woke up there were no injuries when he woke and if the pain was real he would have woke up.

He heard his Siri yelling for him but he didn’t want to come out. He didn’t want to get in trouble, his mama wouldn’t let him get yelled at. She wouldn’t let Siri or papa yell at him.

He hadn’t seen papa since before he fell asleep.

There was a sound of crackling around him and it was warm, but mama was cold. He wanted her to hug him.

“Where the fucking hell is he?!” Sirius shouted.

“I haven’t seen him since Lily grabbed him!” Remus shouted back. He sounded far away like he was up the stairs.

He was safe right now, safely hidden in his mother’s skirts. Here no one could hurt him because she would save him, but mama wasn’t moving. She wasn’t yelling at Siri for swearing.

Hadrian crawled out from under her skirts and looked around.

The palace burned.

Fire.

Fire everywhere.

It raged, travelling through the portraits and tapestries and the bodies that laid on the floor.

His mother stared at him but she didn’t see. Her eyes were glassy, her lips in the shape of a small “o” as if she had just been surprised with a small gift. She was so white, whiter than the snow, whiter than the flower of her namesake. Her hair wet and a darker red than he had ever seen before.

Her neck a ragged tear, a painting of red and purple.

Hadrian crawled forward and grabbed her arm. “Mama!” He shook her arm, and instead of a firm hand taking his own, it hung in his grip loose and unmoving.

He knew that she wouldn’t wake up and that the flames were growing closer, but he couldn’t let her go.

He didn’t want to.

Hadrian looked through the flames and saw his papa. He was further away, behind the flames and he could hear his Sirius and Remus screaming for him, screaming his name as they searched, but he couldn’t answer, he needed his momma to wake up and hold him. To make it alright.

Something wet dropped on his forehead from the ceiling.

Hadrian looked up.

Hanging upside down on the ceiling was a man. His arms were twisted and bent backwards, his fingers latched into the plaster, his head spun around, the skin of his neck curled around in a spiral that wasn’t right, wasn’t natural.

Thick red drops fell unevenly from its mouth, another one landing on Hadrian’s head.

It’s white eyes watched as Hadrian tightened his grip on his mother’s arm.

His heart felt like it was in his throat, it was pounding so loud that he could hear it in his ears. The sound of the fire was lost to the rush of blood that pulsed in his head.

Hadrian licked his dry lips.

It smiled. It smiled and it was horrible. It didn’t stop at its lips but split up into its cheeks almost to its ears and Hadrian could see all the _teeth_ and _bone_ and the red of blood. He focused on it, it cut itself into his mind to the point that he didn’t notice that it was releasing its grip from the plaster.

It was falling towards him, would land on him and rip him apart, rip him to pieces and he would lay between his parents as the flames consumed them all.

He closed his eyes.

The sound of metal hitting flesh echoed through the room, and Hadrian turned to see a man with black hair and a sneer on his lips.

The monster was in the flames, the end of a thick metal curtain rod was on its chest, holding it into the fire. Its skin cracked and burned and turned black like paper that had been thrown into a fireplace.

Hadrian watched, enraptured by the flames that consumed the monster.

A sudden grip was on his shoulder and he was pulled away from his mother.

Hadrian screamed. He kicked and fought against the hand on his shoulder and arm. He bit the hand and sobbed, he begged to be released.

Pain blossomed through his face as a hand lashed out and struck his cheek, slapping him hard, “You stupid child! I am trying to help you!”

Hadrian looked at the person who held his arm and it was the man that had hit the monster. He had dark grey eyes and they were very angry.

“Help her!”

“She’s dead! There is no helping her!” The man hissed and then looked behind towards the stairs, “HE’S HERE!”

There was a pounding of feet Sirius and Remus were there.

Sirius pulled him up into his arms and looked at the young man with grey eyes, “How do we get out? The fire has us walled in and even if it didn’t there’s more of those _things_ outside.”

The man turned on his heel and went towards a small alcove and pressed his hand against a nondescript wood panel which opened a doorway that Hadrian had never seen before. “This is an escape tunnel. It will take you out to the docks. Run, get out of the city or you will all die. The Tsar is dead and you have no protection here.”

Sirius nodded, his face lined and grim, Hadrian saw a smear of blood up his cheek. "Thank you." Was all he said before he slid into the tunnel and began to run, holding Hadrian close to his chest.

Hadrian watched the grey-eyed man close the door, locking himself in. "Siri! He’s going to die!”

Remus pursed his lips and looked back, “He must have a different way out, otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed back.”

Hadrian sniffed as they continued to run down the dark tunnel. They continued hurrying, they could hear small bits of shouting as they passed air vents that lead out into the city.

"It sounds like the city is revolting," Remus whispered.

"I told you that the first time we came here." Was Sirius’ reply.

There was a thud as Remus collided with the metal doorway at the end of the tunnel. They were at the end of the tunnel, icy water washing up their against their feet as they searched desperately for a handle to open the iron door.

"For fuck's sake!" Remus growled and pushed the door open. Hadrian could see that his hands were bleeding. He must have cut his hand on the metal handle.

The door opened with a scream that echoed through the area. Icy, ankle deep water flooded into the tunnel, Sirius and Remus hissing with pain but they ran out onto the partially flooded dock, slipping on the rotted boards beneath them as they made their way towards one of the debarking ships.

They were several hundred feet away but they could both see a departing barge, filled with boxes, stacks of pottery... everything that St. Petersburg had to offer.

To the left of them was the city and it was burning.

If they failed to leave, they were doomed.

Remus grabbed Sirius’ arm and pulled him along, helping him go that bit faster. The ship was out of the port, but not out of the dock. They rounded the corner, Remus dragging Sirius at this point.

100 feet.

50 feet.

10 feet.

5 feet.

The boat was just out of the dock as they approached, Remus let out a cry of "Jump!" as he leapt out onto the boat. Sirius and Hadrian following just behind him.

Remus had landed gracefully, while Sirius had hit the deck on his knees, curling up around Harry in a hope of protecting him from the impact.

Hadrian bit down on his tongue and held back a scream at the jarring of the impact.

Remus helped them up, his rough hands brushing Hadrian’s bangs out of his face. “It will be okay,” He looked up, over his head to Sirius, “Hide yourself and Hadrian. I will attempt to negotiate passage."

Sirius frowned, gripping Hadrian tighter to his chest, "But what if they say no? What if they throw you off?"

"Then I'll swim and make my way back." He shoved Sirius a bit and made his way towards the bridge.

Hadrian sniffed and buried his face back into Sirius’ shoulder as he walked to the back of the boat. There wasn't much he could hide either of them in.

At the very back of the boat, there was a large pot. “We’re going to put you in here for now,” Sirius said and slid Hadrian into it.

Hadrian nodded weakly and curled up inside. He didn’t want to say anything. He couldn’t. Not with what had happened, so he stuck his thumb in his mouth even though his mother had spent the last year breaking him of the habit and closed his eyes as Sirius slid the top of the lid over the pottery vase and fell asleep.

 


	2. Chapter One: A Bargain Struck

 

“Ah, here you are.”

Harry looked up, just in time to see the matron toss a thin stack of papers onto the desk. They were folded in half, slightly wrinkled from their less-than-stellar storage, and foxed with age. It felt rather anticlimactic, actually—all this time, wondering what they had on file about him, and now learning that they hadn’t even bothered to keep his papers straight.

It probably wasn’t the matron’s fault, in retrospect. The drawer she’d taken them from looked close to bursting. Harry thought about all the other children in the orphanage, many half his age; now that winter had hit, it felt like there was a new one coming every other day. They had been gracious to let him stay this long when they were so tight on space.

He had half a mind to leave his papers there, despite knowing he’d need them. They looked like they might disintegrate the moment he tried to pick them up.

Alas, the matron, perhaps aware of the direction of his thoughts or perhaps not, was not so keen to let him.

“That’s all of them,” she said, nodding once towards the small pile.

Harry swallowed. “Thanks,” he said, and gingerly picked them up. Logically, they weren’t going to bite him—but, well. That was what they said about the newborns, too.  

The first page was a document detailing the circumstance of his arrival to the orphanage. Upon seeing the word ‘pot’, Harry winced and quickly stuffed the papers into his pocket. No need to read the rest of that.

When the matron gave him a mildly disapproving look, Harry was startled to realize he didn’t have to care about what she thought of him anymore. No more extra set of chores, no more withholding dinner, no more lectures, or slaps, or time-outs in the closet under the stairs…

Harry pocketed his hands. The papers crinkled.

He remembered back when he was eleven, about this time of year, he had fallen ill with a dreadful cold. He had been bedridden for many days, and throughout all of them, this matron had cared for him whenever she could. She had snuck him extra soup from the kitchen—leftovers, she said, but now he knew they were probably _her_ portions, willingly sacrificed for a child who might not live to see the next spring.

“Thank you,” he said again, earnestly this time.

She never hesitated to scold him before, never thought twice about taking a belt to his hands, and yet. Cold as she was, Harry could not deny the thanks he owed her.

The matron sighed softly. “You best be going now,” she ordered, “Leave early in the morning, and find somewhere warm to stay the night.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said.

“And food—don’t forget to feed yourself, when you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Find a job—any job, doesn’t matter what. They’ll take you if you show you can work—that you’ll do as you’re told. I hear St. Petersburg has a few openings; you can start there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looked at him, stare hard and unreadable. Then, her shoulders fell and she sighed again.

“Good luck, Harry,” she said. “Don’t come back.”

This time, Harry said nothing. Instead, he gave her a sharp nod, turned, and walked out the door. It would be the last he saw of her, of this place, and while his heart was eager, his feet were a bit slow on the uptake.

The few he passed on his way out seemed to sense this, too. They either nodded to him, waved, or said goodbye in their own ways. The most recent additions to the orphanage watched him curiously, huddling amongst themselves for warmth, and curling closer to each other as he passed. These, he nodded to, too, and in the privacy of his mind, he wished them luck on being adopted into a good family, though it was unlikely.

Most were here to stay. Until they left—like him.

Harry walked outside into the cold, biting Russian winter, boots crunching against the snow, and looked up. A soft, lazy dusting of snowflakes floated down from the sky, and though he could see no sun this morning, the wide, far-reaching clouds somehow inspired more hope in him than a single sunbeam ever could.

For the first time in...ever, he felt _free_.

* * *

St. Petersburg was a strange place.

It wasn’t like there were talking animals or anything, or men in archaic black cloaks suspiciously sprinting through the streets—no, everyone was perfectly human. But it was strange in that there was just so much to see, and Harry could not stop turning his head this way and that, trying to take in all the sights.

The orphanage was located on the outskirts of the nearest town, and even then, the rural population was not so big enough to create the necessity for a sprawling urban landscape. St. Petersburg, on the other hand— _St. Petersburg_ was different.

Buildings loomed; old towers spired. People walked so fast—it seemed like everyone had a place to be, acting like they should’ve been there by yesterday. And where his old town had a central bulletin board in the middle of town square for news, here, there were flyers pasted nearly everywhere: shop fronts, pillars, alleys…

Either Harry was walking around in circles, or there was a newspaper stall on just about every corner.

However, that too felt impossible, for the more he walked, the more familiar he felt the city was. More and more often, Harry caught himself instinctively turning his head to look where a landmark should be—sometimes he was right, sometimes he was wrong, but either way, it made navigation a lot simpler.

At least he had that going for him. He didn’t know where these places of employment the matron had mentioned could be; every shop he walked in turned him away with a shake of their head.

Harry wondered if other people were also wandering around, looking for work—something about him must’ve tipped them off, if they knew just by seeing him walk through the door.

Finally, Harry decided to take a short break. He could feel the ache in his feet all the way up to his knees, and his face was good and numb from the frigid air. So, upon finding a relatively out-of-the-way alley, and making sure it was unoccupied, he slipped in and took a seat.

Something he sat on crinkled.

Harry blinked. His papers were still in his coat pocket; he felt them and made sure they were there. So what could he have possibly—

Harry reached under and, from underneath himself, pulled out a slightly damp, wrinkled flyer.

It was a wanted poster—Harry squinted—written by a man named Sirius Black, looking for the last Romanov heir. But Harry could’ve sworn the Romanovs were well and truly dead, at least from what he’d heard, so he shrugged and set the flyer off to the side.

The amount of digits in the reward was tempting, but he knew what these things were: a fool’s errand. At least, that was what the matrons called it, whenever spring came and the snow melted, beckoning the children to dig for buried treasure in the newly uncovered ground.

Harry hadn’t tried digging for a long time—not since discovering the corpse of a frozen snake in a pile of still-melting snow. He’d brought it inside and unwittingly scared the other children, and had consequently gone hungry for the night. The lecture he’d gotten for that was still vivid in his mind.

Harry winced, and then shivered, pulling his coat tighter around him. If he could not find work, he would at least have to find a place to stay before nightfall. A winter night spent outside was a one way ticket to the afterlife, and getting off that train was not so simple as politely asking the conductor.

He ended up following the alley down to the next street over, but upon emerging, Harry felt like there was something familiar about this place—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His feet moved on their own this time, and Harry followed.

He knew this place; he was sure of it. Harry walked faster and faster until he was nearly running.

There—around the corner—!

Harry slowed to a walk, panting as he looked around him. In the near distance was a large, stately manor that stretched on for nearly the entire block—it would have been quite the magnificent sight had it not been so decrepit.

Clearly abandoned, the remains of the Winter Palace stood ominous and dark.

Harry stopped in front of it and stared, tracing the lines and pillars with his eyes. His chest ached unintelligibly, like a cat’s loud, excessive cry had been bottled and stoppered in his heart, and was now trying to pester its way out.  

He placed his hand over his chest and felt the life beat there, muted through his clothes though it was. The family who lived in this grand palace had not been so fortunate. For good reason; Harry imagined murder was not exactly a life-granting event.

And yet, even with this line of thought, he could not pull his eyes away.

Harry licked his lips, and it was like licking ice. Well, certainly, if no one lived here any longer, there wasn’t anyone going to mind if he...slipped in? Just for the night?

He approached the door and tried to pull it open. Locked. It figured.

Harry looked around. No witnesses—good. Without waiting a second longer, he picked up a sizeable chunk of rock, moved over to one of the windows, and broke the glass.

* * *

Harry carefully made his way through the shards of glass from his messy entrance. Once clear of that, he took a look around.

A fine layer of dust coated the broken remains of furniture like a fresh coat of paint. And there were many of them; what used to be an ornate set of tables and chairs, a sofa slashed with the stuffing sagging out of the fabric, the curtain rail of another window hanging off its bracket with the curtain itself in shreds.

Harry wasn’t sure what the original use of this room was. He thought it might be some sort of parlor room, but there wasn’t much he was basing his judgement from. At least, he didn’t think any of the wreckage looked like a bed, but who knew what rich people slept on—especially the royal family; perhaps they had fancy beds that folded into the walls, or something.

Had it been dark, or at least as dark as St. Petersburg could be, the wreckage might’ve been more disturbing than it was now. But it was still day, still light outside, and instead the sorry state of the room was just...quiet. Void.

Harry swallowed.

Sad, somehow.

Harry stepped forward. He thought he could imagine what the Winter Palace might’ve been like in its prime—when he, a penniless orphan, could have only dreamed of stepping foot in this place. But now it was empty, and not even the beggars dared to make camp here for fear of being cursed to death like the royal family had.

He took his time exploring. His chest ached less somehow as he fed his curiosity, so Harry didn’t hesitate to edge close to a splintered pile of a miscellaneous wood and dig through it a bit.

There was nothing there. Perhaps this place _had_ been looted dry afterwards.

Harry frowned and moved on.

Not everything was in shatters. Some of it was just...dusty, yellowed and grimed with age. Harry passed several paintings too large and heavy to carry off; in other rooms, probably untouched by the disaster, the furniture was still left in-tact, waiting for maids that would never come to clean them.

An ornate egg sat in one of them, the mirror behind it murky and distorted. Harry walked up to it and looked. Hair a mess, glasses tilted—yet still, he and this place…

His eyes flickered down to the egg. Its colors had all but faded now, what had once been the receiver of a noble's admiring gaze now forgotten here, too heavy and dirty for anyone to bother to steal it. Despite himself, Harry smiled, brushing a fingertip along its surface. It felt waxen, the dust clinging to his skin, but his action had revealed a small strip of blue, gold, and white.

The curve of a swan's wing—how nostalgic.

...Nostalgic?

Harry frowned. He leaned closer and blew, sending an upheaval of dust back towards the mirror. Still, a layer clung to it, the egg no prettier than it had been a moment before. Only now, he could see a pattern of childish animals painted around its middle—swans, bears, horses, the creatures he imagined would grace a child's bedroom.

Little figures, rotating on a music box...

The glimpse, so vivid into a world he was sure he never knew, startled him. Harry turned his head and looked behind him, but it was still the same; the dilapidated walls, the musty scent, the silence.

How odd.

He exited the room in a daze, turning down the hall with a gait better suited for someone who knew where he was going than one who did not. And up ahead, he could see the wide door frame, he could surmise what was beyond, but _how did he_ know—

— _that it would be a ballroom_?

Harry stood still for a moment, resting his hand on the door frame as he stared. It must've been grand in its prime; full of light and gilded tiles. The walls would've been an art piece on their own, where every slight turn of the head would've seen something new, something priceless, but now they were stained with soot and scorch marks.

He stepped forward, wondering, the sound of his boots echoing against the marble as he crossed the expanse with his neck craned up to the ceiling. Even that was decorated, and he imagined what it must've been like, to have this beautiful place filled with equally beautifully dressed people.

The thought pushed the very breath from him. He spun, looking, staring, _seeing_ , and it was like he could—like he did know, what it would look like, sound like, feel like. The colors, the dancing, the music—

Harry spun to a stop, staring at the front of the room. A grand staircase led to the very top, its carpet spilling out onto the ballroom floor like a waterfall of dusty red. Something about it, so unspeakably familiar, made him feel on the verge of crying.

Once he stepped foot on the carpet, no longer did the sound of his steps echo across the room—it turned silent, silent like a grave.

At the top of the steps, sitting as the main centerpiece of the ballroom, was a tall, grand portrait of the royal family. The man and woman—presumably the king and queen, stood tall and stately side-by-side. Harry was surprised by how young they looked; the king wasn't white-haired or balding, but rather youthful with a full head of black. He commanded an aura of power even as a painting, and his queen...

She was equally youthful; beautiful, no doubt. Even in the portrait's ill-maintained state, the red of her hair was still bright and drew his eye. One of her hands was resting on a young boy's shoulder, and upon closer inspection, Harry startled.

For a moment, he could've sworn that this boy looked like—

"Hey scavenger, we were here first!"

Harry jumped. He spun around. Two men, looking very impatient, were glaring up at him from the foot of the staircase. He hadn't even heard them come in, so how...?

"I just want to spend the night," he said quickly. "Hey, wait a second. _Scavenger_? Are you—"

The one on the left tapped his foot. "Trying to make a living here? Yes. Now, off you go."

Harry blinked. "You...you know the royal family was _murdered_ here, right? Actually _murdered_."

"Says the one who wants to sleep here," sneered the man on the right.

Rude, but he kind of had a point. Harry put his hands up in the universal gesture for peace and began to step forward. "Alright, alright. From one penniless bloke to another—"

He paused. They were staring at him. Why were they staring at him?

"Tom—"

" _I know_."

"Well," Harry said, "I don't. Why are you looking at me like that?"

The man on the right, Tom, instantly made it up the steps with an enviable amount of grace. Up close, even with the lack of lighting, Harry could tell he was rather handsome. He certainly didn't have the appearance of someone who needed to loot abandoned palaces to live.

They locked eyes. Harry flinched back, the hairs on the back of his neck raising on a near instantaneous reaction. This man, Tom, he was sure he never met before—and yet—

It felt like déjà vu personified had walked up behind him and shoved its cold, phantom hand down his shirt. Harry had the urge to place his hand on his neck, over his jugular, as if the extra layer could restore some semblance of safety to him—return his rationality from whence it so cowardly fled.

With little to no warning, Tom took hold of Harry's chin and turned his head this way and that.

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed, jolting. He tried to bat him away, but by then, Tom had already let go. Harry immediately put a good distance between them. "What was that for?"

When Tom didn’t even look a bit repentant about suddenly grabbing him, Harry scowled.

"Most people shake hands when they want to greet someone, you know," he said.

Tom ignored him. "Snape," he said, calling down to his partner at the foot of the stairs, "He's perfect."

" _Excuse me_?"

Below, Snape frowned. "You're sure?"

"You're not the only one who knew what the prince looked like, you know. And I'm telling you, _he_ —" Tom gestured towards Harry, "—is a perfect copy."

"Hello, yes, the person you just accosted is still here. What are you even talking about?" Harry asked, exasperated.

Tom spun around and closed the distance between them in two long strides. Harry flinched back, but before he could get away, Tom dragged him by the arm back in front of the large painting again.

"How would _you_ like to not be penniless anymore?" Tom asked him, dangerously close to his ear.

Harry swallowed and leaned his head away. "If this place is what your working conditions are like, I'll take my chances somewhere else, thanks."

Tom smiled, all teeth. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't."

"Well, I'm Tom, and you are?"

Harry squinted at him for a long while, but Tom's grip never once slackened. Reluctantly, he said, "Harry."

" _Harry_. Perchance you might've seen the posters up around town—a search for the missing Romanov prince?"

"...Maybe. But what does that have to do with—" Harry paused, staring. Then, he turned his head back to the painting. Specifically, the little boy who stood in between the king and queen, dressed in the garbs of royalty. He also, rather curiously, looked a little like Harry.

As if he was reading his mind, Tom said, "His name was Hadrian Romanov. No one knows if he's dead or alive, but my money's on dead. Sirius Black, however, begs to differ—which suits us just as well, because he's paying a cash reward to whoever finds _and returns_ his missing godson."

"That's nice and all, but one problem: they're looking for a prince, and I'm not one."

"That won't be an issue," Snape said.

Harry looked back. Snape had, by now, ascended the stairs, and was also looking at him with the same look Tom had: measuring, calculative...appraising. What he found must've been up to par, because he then said, "We can teach you."

"You?" Harry's eyebrows lifted past his hairline. "I found you two scavenging in an abandoned building. Is that where most royal candidates hang out, or...?"

"Cute," Tom said, "But you'll find we're quite capable. We both worked closely with the Romanovs—knew the prince, in fact. We can teach you how to act like him, talk like him...everything he knew, you can, too. We split the reward, and you'll never have to work another day in your life. How do those working conditions sound for you?"

Harry's gaze flickered down to his arm. Tom, still smiling, let him go.

On one hand, he was poor. Unemployed. Homeless. On the other hand, what they were basically asking him to do was deceive an old man who just wanted to see his godson again. Was it immoral? Yes. Would he feel bad about it? Yes. Could he walk out, find a job, and forget this ever happened? Probably, yes.

But was he poor? Also yes, and that was perhaps the most important yes out of all of them.

"It’s sounding like my type of job, now," Harry said aloud. He extended a hand. "Harry Potter, nice to meet you."

Tom shook it. "Tom Riddle, a pleasure to do business with you. My partner's name is Severus Snape. He was close to the king and queen, as well—he'll tell you everything you need to know about them."

Snape nodded to him. Harry nodded back.

"When do we start?"

* * *

In the end, they did end up camping out in the Winter Palace. So much for respecting the dead.

Tom lead them out of the ballroom to a smaller side room, bringing along some scavenged wood to light a fire in the hearth there. The temperature was rapidly dropping as night fell, and even Harry, well-used to nights in a poorly heated orphanage, felt a sense of urgency to get a fire going as soon as possible.

Russian winters were not kind to the destitute.

Snape left them there for an hour or two, leaving Tom and Harry to set up a makeshift fort on their own. When he returned, he brought with him two gifts: three bowls’ worth of piping hot borscht, and three tickets for a train headed straight out of Russia.

“We’ll teach you on the way there,” Tom told him, sipping at his soup with an unfairly graceful poise. Harry felt like a gorilla next to him, bulky with fumbling limbs and beetroot all over his face. Tom shot him an appraising look, and then wrinkled his nose.

“What?” Harry asked. He then slurped a mouthful of borscht down, sounding closer to a sewer system than a human.

“We’ll have to teach you _a lot_ on the way there,” Tom amended. “No matter; Black lives all the way in Paris, now, as a ward of France--ample time to make you a convincing Romanov.”

Harry squinted. That last part sounded like he was talking to himself.

“Indeed,” Snape muttered. When Harry turned to look at him, he too ate with an abnormally fluid movement. Neither of them looked like they were sitting cross-legged on the floor of an abandoned building.

Harry looked down at himself, then up at the two again. Well, it was too late to change his posture now, wasn’t it? He tried to eat more quietly, but it was still the loudest sound in the room.

Harry coughed. “So how _did_ you guys go from rubbing elbows with the royal family to, er, _this_ , anyway? Seems like a pretty big jump.”

Tom side-eyed him. “You don’t believe us.”

“Would you?”

Tom paused and observed him for a moment, eyes searching his face. Harry stared right back.

But it was Snape that spoke.

“What do you know of the Romanovs?”

Without pulling away, Harry said, “Their names were Lily and James Romanov, and they had one son: Hadrian. The queen was a commoner, wasn’t she? Like you and me.”

Snape set his bowl down. “Yes,” he said, “she was.”

Harry finally broke their staring contest and turned to look at Snape. He wasn’t looking at either of them--his gaze was directed at the hearth, and had his chest not moved in time with their breath, Harry might’ve assumed he was dead: as still and grave as the granite walls.

Tom spoke next.

“They were murdered by a dark wizard’s curse--Lord Voldemort’s curse. Ever heard of him?”

Harry suppressed a shudder. Oh, he’d _heard_ of him, alright. The matrons back at the orphanage used to scare the children to bed on time with stories of him. ‘Go to sleep, or Voldemort will come looking’, they’d say, or ‘Do your chores, or Voldemort will place a curse on you’--outlandish things like that.

But for him and the rest of the children, there’d always been a _what if_ . _What if_ the matrons were right? _What if_ Voldemort really would find them? There was no getting away from a dark wizard with a mere belt or two--no, they would be cursed, and end up as dead as the Romanovs were.

“Just one or two things,” Harry said.

Tom smiled in a peculiar sort of way--close-lipped and half a grimace. He jerked his head in Snape’s direction.

“Well, you’re sitting next to his apprentice.”

Harry choked, the borscht stinging at the back of his throat. He turned his head so fast he gave himself whiplash.

“Do close your mouth,” Snape said, sneering. “And I’ve long since stopped calling him master--a fact Tom _well knows_.”

“Apologies-- _ex-_ apprentice,” Tom said, not sounding very apologetic at all. “Right up until the Dark Lord cursed the Romanovs. As you can see, he’s rather bitter about it.”

“He was an arrogant _demon_ who sought only power, no matter the cost,” Snape spat. “So naturally, _I_ betrayed _him_ first. There’s nothing else to it, _busboy_.”

Tom didn’t look too insulted at all; he set his own bowl aside, taking his time in what Harry could only call a deliberately condescending manner, and then said, “Oh yes, it was his drive for power that you hated. Anyway, as Snape has so delightfully pointed out, I was a servant at the time, and had the chance to see the prince on several occasions. You know nobles--anyone below their station is mere background noise.”

“But...you’re here.”

Tom inclined his head. “We survived. Unfortunately, there’s little work to be had for two men whose experience primarily comprised of working under the royal family--the same royal family that had been cursed to death by an evil dark wizard. Tends to incite fear among the masses, you know.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Harry said.

“A true mystery,” Snape deadpanned.

“So there you have it,” Tom finished. “Believe us?”

Harry looked down at his empty bowl, the bottom still stained a deep red from the soup. He thought it didn’t matter either way, whether he believed them or not. If Tom was telling the truth, then while his journey wasn’t righteous, it did have a note of justification to it. And if Tom was lying, then they were just any ordinary conmans off the street, and Harry lost nothing for trying.

They certainly sold their story well enough.

Off to trick an old, lonely man of his fortune, were they? Well, desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I’ve already eaten a meal with you. Doesn’t that mean I’m in this for good, or something?”

“We’d have to kill you if you left now,” Tom agreed.

Harry wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by the divine RenderedReversed and the most awesome character sketch at the bottom was done by the lovely Awsomeangel <3


	3. Chapter Two: Hangman's Noose

 

 

 

It was hard to ignore the door in front of him.

Lit by a single bulb, it was the only thing Harry could see in the darkness. Vast, bleak and desolate. There was nothing under his feet, nothing above his head, no sound calling to him, and no sight he could focus on that had a distinct shape. Harry didn’t quite know how he was able to walk when the space below seemed more likely to ripple over his head and drag him under than to provide a safe passage.

But he walked, and his steps echoed like knuckles knocking on wood in this strange dreamscape he found himself in.

One hand on the doorknob, he took a deep breath and counted to three. He opened the door and stepped through—

—and found himself in an explosion of colour and sound.  

A patchwork of low-lit orange and pastels stretched above him, lighter shades blending into the glowing backdrop like clouds. People had their backs to him, coats mismatched in different shade of brown and green, hats in all shape and sizes, and unsynchronized in their shouts and their pushes and their shoves. Yet, as Harry listened to the tone and inflection of their yelling, the dissonance become more fitting. Slotted together, they hurled their insults as one, united in one common entity. One common poisonous entity.

Hatred.

A vigorous kind of hatred that inspired people to scream their throats raw.

How horrible it must be to be at the brunt of it. The longer he stood, the sharper, the more vicious, the wave of noise threatened to be. Searching for a path he could easily sip through, Harry shouldered his way through the crowd.

With each body he boulders his way past, a stage is unveiled. A wooden stage with a man and woman with their hands tied in front of them. They stood on stools and a noose adorning their neck. Behind them stood their executioner staring straight in front of him.

It was the woman that caught Harry’s eye.

It was visceral—winding him like a strike to his sternum—

She was beautiful.

Her red hair was brighter, more vivid, than the unusual sky itself, and her eyes a green that could cut down forests from her glares. A green that reminded him of hims own whenever he caught his reflection in the puddles. She stood with her back straight and her face stern, every inch of her was regulated and poised. Dignified and regal in the face of her own death. She never let her nose dip once, and the noose clung to her like a necklace of pearls, instead of a collar glorifying her defeat. The way she regarded the crowd under her nose was a challenge Harry would never dare meet.

Entranced by her integrity, Harry couldn’t look away.

The crowd was raucous; vindicated in the vitriol they spewed, and with each passing second, it became clear the phrase that was being shouted.

_For the people!_

That was the moment she saw him in the crowd.  

Her eyes widened, a slow dawning of horror. Leashed at her neck, she couldn’t leave the stool, and it was only because she turned her whole body towards him that Harry finally noticed the man standing beside her.

Curly haired, sharp nosed and on the gangly side. The man looked exactly like him.

He, too, was staring at Harry in horror.

And suddenly, Harry knew. Harry knew, with a certainty that sent bile crawling up his throat and dread dragging his limbs, that those two—the man and the woman—the people about to be hung by their necks were his parents.

His parents—

His parents were about to be executed.

“Out of my way,” Harry said, pushing himself forward.

He slammed into someone's back. They didn't budge. Jutting his elbows out, pushed harder against the crowd.

Gritting his teeth, Harry shoved his arm. “I need to get to the stage—get out of my way!”

Instead of letting him through, they held him back. Harry felt hands, multiple of them, grab his arms and tugged him back. Hands dug their fingers into his legs, and no matter how hard Harry anchored his heels in, he was being pulled backwards.

His scream blended with the crowd. His pleas were lost amidst a sea of hatred.

“No! Stop it! Let me go!”

On the stage, the woman was saying something. Her mouth moved, her lips formed words, but Harry couldn't discern them He jerked his shoulders, but it was no use—Harry drowned in the crowd. His chest convulsed in exhaustion, and he strained to look at his mother. 

One word. Harry caught his mother mouthing one word over and over again, as if it was the holy prayer. As if it were the ode to her salvation.

_Hadrian._

The executioner kicked the stool from underneath her.

Harry screamed. _“No!”_

He fought for her, the hardest that he’s ever fought for anything in his life, but the hands would not relent. They held him back, and he began losing sight of her to the growing expanse of shoulders and heads that were blocking his view.

So he screamed for her. He yelled and hollered until fingers dug itself painfully into his throat and his calls were choked off.

She fought for him too, her legs kicking as she struggled for air. Her whole body was supported by her neck and jaw, and the rope swung whichever way she kicked, but her eyes—her eyes were on Harry.

She refused to take her eyes off Harry.

His mother fought for him too, even as pressure built into sharp pricks that blurred his eyes, and they lost sight of each other.

Harry was thrown backwards through the door, ripped away from his mother once more.

 

* * *

 

The door slammed shut in front of him.

“No, no, _no!_ ”

Harry scrambled after it, chasing the last glimpse of the barest thread connecting him to his mother with shaking hands that clawed desperately at the door.

“Open the door!” Harry yelled as he slammed his fists against it. “Open the bloody door!”

He rattled the knob and banged it with his palm. He rammed his shoulder against the door until his body started shaking. He kicked and shoved until exhaustion tackled him, and he slumped into the ground in despair.

Nothing he did made the door budge.

His parents were there, and he had been so, _so_ close to them.

He hadn’t realised he had been crying, but the air on his cheeks were chillier than before. His face was wet, and he smeared the new tears that pricked his eyes with his hand. Resting his forehead against the door, he focused on calming his erratic breathing and observing the room brick walls around him.

Grey, like the layout of the floor. Dull, depressing grey.

He was sick of grey and depressing things. Harry closed his eyes and shifted to rest his back against the door.

When he opens his eyes, he stiffened.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a man bound across from him. More skeletal than man, his pale skin was a stark contrast to the robe that pooled at his feet. He had two slit where his nose should have been and he hung half-collapsed; his arms shackled to the wall, head bowed, eyes closed, and legs folded underneath him.

An air of reverence blanketed him, the same due of respect one would pay to a lifeless corpse.

He hadn’t moved at all during Harry’s scrutiny.

How long had he been there? Was he listening when Harry broke down in his grief?

Was he alive?

As if he spoke the words aloud, the man surged forward—

Harry flinched back against the door, his heart sped up and his breathing hitched, threatening to become undone.

—and was restrained by iron chain that held him to the wall.

Slowly, he lifted his head. He tilted it sideways, letting his ears test for Harry, and Harry, tense and shuddering, collected himself long enough to slow down his breathing in an effort to avoid detection.

His eyes were still closed. His fingers were long and pointed, like sharpened knife, and it curled into his hand, before he surged forward again, and the cuff broke from the wall with a chilling _clink._

Letting his hand lead the way, one after another, he began to crawl towards Harry.

 _Get up,_ Harry told himself. _Get up and leave!_

It was no use. Harry’s body betrayed him. It refused to move, becoming dead weights that dragged Harry into the floor, and Harry was left with himself and his increasingly erratic heartbeat.

He dreaded to think what would happen once that man got his hands on Harry—and he will. He was steadily gaining ground, and the bottom of his robe became wisps of black. Non-corporeal, and fleeting, they flooded the whole room as he came closer.

And closer, and closer.

Harry didn’t dare blink, his tongue felt thick from bitter fear, and he held his breath in a futile effort to minimise himself—hide himself—as dread jolted his still body into a slow, bubbling panic.

The cold in his legs didn’t start until the man hovered over him, until his robes began to chew through his lower half. Tingles, pinpoint in the accuracy and as relentless as an army of ants, seized his muscles.

Harry gritted his teeth through it all. He still couldn’t move, and now, his vocal cord refuses to obey him.

And then the man reached for Harry.

His face—sharp and gaunt with a pallid shade that suggested a kind of illness—was inches of his own. His hands skimmed the corner of Harry’s jaw, and his touch was so acute and full of frost that it stuttered out his breathing and left him shivering.

Briefly, Harry wondered how the man was able to stay upright when both hands were off the floor.

All thought evaded him when the man touched his face.

No, the man cradled Harry’s face, and his touch was a shock of warm solidity where he expected nothing but unforgiving coldness. His thumbs brushed the length of Harry’s throat, and Harry was reminded of his mother and the fingers that stabbed into line of his neck in order to stop his screaming.

It was nothing like before, and it kicked the stool out of Harry’s feet. This touch was tender.

Tenderness wasn’t what Harry was expecting at all.

Against all better judgement, as well as his own control, his muscles uncoiled. Harry’s body was submitting and his heart was slowing. Each fibre in body swelled with lethargy until every threads was saturated and dragged Harry down into a false sense of security.

 _Fight this._  

He couldn’t. And when the man opened his eyes, Harry forgot why he should.

Startling, it was, how red his eyes were. Not a deep red that reflected blood or insinuate any hint of warmth, but a clear, bright red. A piercing red. One that strikes Harry defenceless even as he turned Harry’s head in his hands, testing the weight of his head, treating Harry like a small specimen of observation.

Sharp pinpricks of pain registered before his vision did. The worst ebbed and flowed away in within a second. All Harry saw was the man in front of him wiping blood away from his cheek with his finger.

The corner of his mouth tipped up at having drawn Harry’s blood. He was pleased at the discovery that Harry _could_ bleed, and he did it so prettily.

The bottom of Harry’s stomach dropped, but the rest of him—the rest of him lay dead still.

Pain’s not waking him up. He’s feeling pain while he’s in a dream, and _pain was not waking him up._

Helpless, Harry felt him curl his hands on his face until his fingernails bit into his skin, and watched his the tips of his thumbs come closer and closer to Harry’s eyes.

At that moment, Harry had the sense that even the biggest, sturdiest of forests can be cut down if the blades were sharp enough.

Then his vision blurred by tears as nails dug into his eyes, and excruciating, blinding, hot pain scratched at his skin in every and all directions. Every nerve felt carved into and hacked to pieces. They trembled and cried, but he couldn’t even scream because his vocal chords were still frozen—

A _squelch._ Then a _pop._

Before he knew it, blood trickled down his face.

All he could see was black.

 

* * *

 

Harry jolted awake in his seat, his heart racing like crazy.

Across from him, Tom turned a page from his book. “Bad dream?” he asked.

It took a second for Tom’s words to register, and that was because Harry was trying to recognise the small room they were in. He leaned back, trying to find his balance while his eyesight blurred and his head spun.

Compartment. Train compartment. That’s right; they were riding a train when Harry started to nod off. He reached one hand up his face, rubbing his eye behind his glasses.

Tom peeked up. “Harry?”

Tom was solid, and Tom was real. He exuded a gravitas even when doing something as innocuous as reading. Harry was happy to anchor himself to it.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “I guess, I did. I was dreaming sorry. A really bad dream. Tom, how long have I been asleep?”

Sliding out a pocket watch, Tom answered, “Seventeen minutes, it seems.”

“Seventeen minutes,” Harry muttered to himself. “Felt like forever.”

A moment of silence. Then, a rustle as Tom turned another page of his book.

“You’re not going to ask me about my dream?” Harry asked, curious.

“Well, no,” Tom replied. “I figured that if you didn’t want to talk about it, you wouldn’t even if I had asked, and if you wanted to talk about it, you would have done so regardless of any prompting. Either way, asking is a bit redundant.”

Harry snorted. “You’ve got everything all sorted, haven’t you? What if I did want to talk about it?”

Tom sighed and closed the book. He glared at Harry from across the room. Harry met his gaze without blinking.

They stared at each other for a minute.

“Well?” Tom demanded.

“Well what?”

“Did you want to talk about it?” Tom asked.

He looked quite constipated while he did it, which cheered Harry up immensely.

“Do I want to talk about it?” Harry repeated, before taking a second or two to savour his response. “No, I suppose I don’t. But I did want to be asked.”

It’s hilarious, Harry thought, how disgust could still look so devastatingly handsome on face like Tom’s.

Tom snapped the book open. “Don’t bother me again. Not unless it’s life threateningly important. Also, why are you still holding your hand over your eye?”

 

* * *

 

For the first time in sixteen years, Voldemort took his first breath.

Voldemort didn’t gasp awake or fought for air as others would. He blinked, taking in what had rightfully been deigned his even if it was stale, stuffy and dusty. There was but darkness, and cement all around him, enclosing him on four sides, hard and unforgiving, but that wasn’t what bothered Voldemort in the slightest.

_The boy lived._

The pain was nothing to him. A mere flutter on his nerves. Flexing his fingers, he brushed his powers against the iron nails. He drew them out, inch by inch, wet and sticky, until they clattered on the ground.

Still, he floated.

Bringing one hand up, he touched the noose, and the noose heated until it turned black, and dissolved into thin air with a hiss.

Severus had crucified him in a mausoleum. He had hung him and thought that the spell, the obscurity, the confinement, and _iron nails_ were enough to stifle him.

Voldemort scoffed.

Severus was a fool. He doesn’t let himself dare to touch upon the word that fluttered on the edge of his mind— _betrayal—_ but the anger… Cold, simmering anger, he welcomed with open arms.

Voldemort should break his legs and bury him alive in to repay the favour of locking him in this mausoleum. Watching him struggle to crawl out his grave while hearing him hack the dirt out of his lungs would be undoubtedly fascinating. Voldemort would ensure that enough new oxygen would be fed into the coffin so that Severus won’t find reprieve in suffocation that easily.

That is, if he breaks open his coffin first; the human body is capable great feats under extreme duress, and Voldemort wondered if Severus would be desperate enough for freedom that he would overcome solid wood and metres of earth with a pair of broken fingers, or broken hands, or maybe a couple of broken ribs.

_Master!_

He would recognise that voice anywhere, and he held his hand out for her. Even without his sight, he could track the leathery scales as it wrapped itself around his arm. How long has she waited for him? Surely she would have found a way out or made herself one? Yet, she’s here. She waited for him.

His loyal servant. His beloved snake. A piece of his soul.

Voldemort raised one hand to pat her head. _Nagini._

 _Master, you have awakened!_ Nagini hisses in his mind. _I have waited for so long._

 _It was only a matter of time, small one_ , Voldemort replied in parseltongue. _No curse is everlasting… and better yet, I have found him._

_Found who?_

_The boy,_ he told Nagini. _The boy lives. And he grows stronger with each cycle._

Voldemort sculpted the jaw and the cheek bones in his mind. They were still soft in some area, and the prominent nose was there, but broader than he remembered. Broader than the baby-faced teenager he tore the throat of in his last life.

Nagini’s tongue slithered out and tickled his hand. _Then we kill him like we usually do._

Voldemort chuckled as he stroked Nagini. Her instinct was something he’s always appreciated.

 _Find your counterpart, small one,_ Voldemort said. _Discover how he encountered the boy and bring them both to me. You may have free use of my army as you wish. There are things I must take care of before we meet again._

There was power in the air around him, under his feet, and its rawness sings to him. Gathering his magic like they were unruly wisps, he cupped Nagini’s eyes and poured a little of his power into her.

He showed her the boy. He guided her to his unruly horcrux, and he told her to get him to comply using any means necessary.

The hunt begins.

And the boy cannot hide for long.

Dreams were his to mould, to shape and to track with, his personal playground. And sleep was insidious in its deception. Sleep stripped off every armour weaved into the fabrics of consciousness into something vulnerable. Sleep was dogged and relentless in a way no other predator can ever be. Everybody, eventually, succumbs.

With Voldemort hunting his mind, and Nagini, his most efficient soldier, hunting his body, there’s no possibility Hadrian Romanov could ever escape his death.

 

* * *

 

It began to darken as it approached dinnertime, and the view from his train seat was one Harry would marvel at forever. As the mountains began to blend into the sky and the sun fell, taking the glow that dusted off landmarks with it, the image of rushing trees became a dark grey blur, and Harry grew bored.

Boredom was dangerous. Boredom leads to thoughts about red hair, and green eyes, and sharp fingers gouging his eyes out.

Bothering Tom was definitely the better idea, or more accurately, digging words into each other like they were knives facing adversaries.

“You don’t seem like the type to resort to tricks or,” Harry broke off, snorting, “tomfoolery to gain some fortune. You dress pretty fancy, in fact.”

Tom didn’t move, but Harry knew that he heard the question. He was just a rigid, control freak that bent every nerve of his body to his will, and he had probably deigned Harry unworthy enough for a physical reaction.

“Do you have a problem with the way I dress?”

“No,” Harry replied. “Normally, people like you shouldn’t have to do this kind of stuff to get by.”

“Have to?” Tom huffed, never looking up from his book. “An orphan that lived on the street, and still so naive. Often, I find that it is the most affluent people that are blinded with greed.”

Harry scowled. “I’m not naïve. Your father just wasn’t subtle about being desperate.”

“My father?”

Harry gestured to his face, drawing a big triangle on his nose.

“Severus?” Tom asked, incredulous. “No. Dear god, no. He’s not my father. He’s a colleague. I’ve worked with him for years.”

“Oh. Do you have any family waiting, then?”

Tom looked up. “What’s with the sudden inquisition?”

“Because I’m _bored,”_ Harry said, drawing the last word. “There’s nothing here to do. And it just occurred to me that we’re doing business and yet, I know nothing about you.”

“You don’t need to know anything about me.”

“We have hours to spare,” Harry pointed out. “And I can bug all day until you talk.”

They catch each other’s gaze—well, Tom’s one was a bit more of a glare—but if Tom is waiting for Harry to back down, then he’s going to be waiting a while.

Evidently, Tom decided that this was a battle he wasn’t going to win. He sighed and closed the book to place it on his lap.

“I have no parents, and no siblings. I suppose I had… _someone…”_ Tom trailed off in thought. “We were cordial at best.”

“…Were?”

“I’ve broken off from him to pave my own future a long time ago, once it became clear that he wasn’t willing to give me what was due.”

“So he was your boss?” Harry asked. “A mentor of sort?”

“No, he wasn’t anything like a mentor,” Tom said, watching the trees pass from the window. “I was an object while under his servitude; a means to an end. He’s never hidden his intentions, and he would rather see me dead than thrive, and I would’ve been dead a long time ago if he didn’t need me alive.” Tom clenched the book in his hand. His knuckles whitened slightly. “The money we get from this endeavour will go a long way to reclaiming what was rightfully mine.”

“What an asshole.”

A rare smirk flicked on to Tom’s face. “Finally. Something we can both agree on.”

“I was found in a pot, so the matron called me Potter,” Harry said. “I like to imagine that it was because my parents stowed me away in the nearest thing they could find to keep me from danger.”

Tom threw him a glance. “I rather doubt that the story is as heroic as you make it out to be,” he said, before turning back to stare out the window. “Many parents simply throw their children away when they’re unwanted.”

“No,” Harry denied, resisting the urge to pat his heart. “Not her. Some things you just know in your guts. She wouldn’t have thrown me away. She would have fought for me. I’m sure of it.”

“Monkeys.”

Harry blinked. “Excuse me?”

There was a slight frown on his face, and he pointed out the window. “There are,” Tom squinted, “flying monkeys.”

Perplexed, Harry turned to the window. He couldn’t see what Tom’s pointing at. Only the same view of trees and mountains passing by in a dark-blue background—

Something slammed against the glass. Harry drew back in shock.

He had a second to register that it was brown and black before it disappeared from sight.

“What was that?” Harry asked, heart racing.

“Flying monkeys.”

“Is that an expletive?”

“No,” Tom says, hand under the lapel of his coat, focused in his rummaging. “No, not an expletive. Those are actual flying monkeys—Get down!”

_Crash!_

Tom reached him in time to jerk him off his seat and into a crouch on the floor. Glass sprayed around them. Whatever tumbled through the window, bounced off the closed door of their train compartment.

A monkey—a monkey with sharp teeth, manic eyes, and leathery black bat-wings. Nostrils flaring, it jumped at them, arms fisted above its head.

Tom reoriented the gun in his hand, cocked it, and pulled the trigger.

_Bang!_

The monkey reeled back, shrieking and clutching its face, before smacking on the seat. It Blood dripped onto the floor.

“Hurry!”

Harry was tugged forward by his arm, and he stumbled after Tom as he ripped the door open and dragged Harry into the hall.

His minds was struggling to wrap itself around what’s happening even as his body broke into a run behind Tom.

It was absurd. Unbelievable. Ridiculous.

Murderous flying monkeys?

The train exploded with noise. Somebody screamed, and people started to flood the hallways, frantic. Tom and Harry kept moving and jumping between carts, never looking back even once. His heart was in his throat but he soldiered on.

Harry doesn’t let himself think. He gripped his instincts with both hand and followed. Else, the thought of shouldering his way through a crowd of people become _too much._

They reached the luggage compartment, where there were no windows and only one way in. Tom turned to Harry, reached into his coat, and pulled out another handgun.

“Can you shoot?” he asked, breathing heavy.

Harry shook his head. “No. How many of that do you have?”

“Enough to delay until Severus finds us.” Tom seemed to debate with himself, before he asked, “How are you with a knife?”

Blinking, Harry checked their surroundings. “How many weapons do you keep on you at all times? Don’t answer that. As for your question—not as good as you are, I assume,” Harry said. “Keep it. I’d hurt myself before I do any actual damage. I’ll find something else.”

Turning, Harry scanned the shelves, the suitcases, the boxes around them. His eyes landed on an umbrella stand, and he grabbed the biggest one, the sturdiest looking one, and gripped it with both hands like a bat.

No sooner than he held the umbrella up did the door slammed open and a flock of monkeys flew in screeching.

They came up to his knees, if Harry had to estimate their height, and they were vicious and blood-thirsty. Harry didn’t have a history of hurting animals, but he didn’t hesitate. As soon as one came close enough, he swung the umbrella.

A crunch, and a thud. Briefly, Harry saw blood, and before he could register the blood as something of his doing, another monkey was aiming for his feet. He kicked out one leg, dislodging the monkey’s hold on him, before swinging down his umbrella again and again. Until another came flying at him and Harry sent it crashing into one of the luggage.

In the back, he could hear Tom’s gun firing off, and the sound didn’t startle him anymore. Not when blood was rushing to his ears and his muscles were straining from exertion. No matter how many Harry hit, another monkey would be there to take its place.

They were getting overwhelmed.

A swoosh and a screech behind him were his warning. Spinning, Harry brings his umbrella up sideways when a monkey makes a swipe at him—

_Not his eyes!_

—Tom’s voice boomed around him.

And a shockwave rippled from Tom, startling the monkeys backwards. One knocked Harry on the side of his head. Pain bloomed from the corner of his eyes, and Harry fell sideways. His glasses flew off his face and clattered a step away, and he smacked on against the floor.

There was nothing around him but blurs. Solid blurs with an undefined shape.

He couldn’t see.

Harry couldn’t see.

He was in the middle of a fight and _Harry couldn’t see._  

His chest seized up, and he clenched the umbrella like a lifeline. He replayed his fall in his mind, trying to imagine where his glasses were when—

A hiss.

Then there was a blur of dark green at the edge of his vision. All of his instinct started screaming.

Harry rolled sideways in time for the snake—was it a snake? It had to be; it hissed and it’s slithering on the floor—to miss him and coil backwards into a large menacing blob. Harry didn’t have time to breathe in, when a gut feeling had Harry holding his umbrella up, one hand on each end.

Right on time for something to push against it. Harry pushed back.

The blob was much bigger now—the snake had lunged at him. He could see blurs of white and red—its teeth and eyes—as it’s jay was clamped down on the umbrella. Harry swung the snake sideways along with his umbrella. Immediately, he scooted backwards in between his staggered pants.

The snake was bigger than any he’d seen in his life. That, he was sure of even though Harry couldn’t actually _see_ much of anything. If it came down to either Harry or the snake in a fight, Harry would have no doubt the snake would kill him within seconds. The more space between him and the snake the better.

Someone— _something_ —gripped his hair and wrenched him backwards. Fire bloomed on his scalp, and Harry clawed at the hands pulling him backwards—oh god, he forgot about the monkeys—as the snake coiled back into another _lunge_ —

_Bang! Bang!_

Red splattered from the snake and sprayed on his face. With the taste of blood on his tongue, Harry took the opportunity of the distraction to elbow whatever it is holding his hair. The twinge of pain from his elbow told Harry his hit has landed.

“Harry, I’ve got your glasses,” he heard Tom say. “I’m coming to you.”

Harry nodded, turning to scamper closer to Tom’s voice.

Where was everybody? Why hasn’t anybody come to their side of the train? They’ve been fighting for what seemed like forever and nobody has arrived to help, and they’re weren’t exactly quiet with their gunshots.

Then, a voice, deeper than Tom’s, swept the train in a circle of visible white light. It rang louder than any bell, and shook the train from the strength of its conviction.

When it washed over Harry, he was graced with one moment of pure, blissful silence, before his ears started ringing.

“—ry? Harry?”

Someone was shaking his shoulders and calling his name. That voice, so familiar, even in the short time they’ve known each other, that it spiked his sense of security.

“Harry?” Tom asked, furrowing his eyebrows. “Are you alright? Can you hear me? Here.”

Something was slipped into his hands. Wiry, metal—his glasses. Harry slid them on, sighing as everything sharpened into focus.

The luggage compartment was a mess. There was blood everywhere, acrid and putrid. Guts peeked out of the snake carcass on the floor. The sight should have repulsed him, and it _did,_ but the relief that crashed into him was stronger.

There was an old man standing behind Tom. A pastor, Harry could tell from his robes, with long white hair, a white beard and twinkling eyes.

“Alright there, young man?” the old man asked.

“Uh—yes,” Harry said, after blinking for an age. “Yes, thank you. All they all gone?”

Tom offered him a hand to help Harry up, and if Harry was squeezing a bit too hard before he had let go, he didn’t comment.

“They’re all gone,” Tom said. He turned to the pastor and held his hand out. “With the help of this kind sir. Thank you. You have my wholehearted gratitude.”

The pastor shook his hand, giving Tom a solemn nod. “Not a problem at all, my boy,” he said. “I haven’t experienced a powerful, dark magic like that in years.”

Harry’s mind boggled. “Magic?” he parroted. “Well, I suppose that explained everything.”

A chuckle from the pastor. “Not questioning it, then?”

“We did just get attacked by flying monkeys,” Harry pointed out. “And that snake was bigger than my thigh.”

“Indeed. You two had put up quite a formidable fight, thankfully,” the pastor said, chuckling. “Now where are my manners; I’m Albus Dumbledore. Would you care to share some tea with me and my companion while the train sorts itself out in the meantime?”

—

Much later, Tom gripped the bathroom sink as he regarded his sunken eyes in the mirror.

That man— _Albus_ —he was more powerful than anyone Tom has met in quite a while. More powerful than Severus had been.

Tom didn’t want to admit that he was unnerved, but the way Albus and his blonde companion stared at him while they were having tea was unsettling. Like they could see through him. Like they _knew_ that he—that Tom was—

It was fortunate that Albus had taken a liking to both Harry and Severus, who Tom and Harry found on their way back to their compartment, and was more preoccupied with conversing with them. His companion, Gellert, had taken a backseat to the conversation, opting to absorb the information, and observe for his own conclusions.

Tom wouldn’t be surprised if he was as powerful as Albus was.

Severus had been preoccupied with fighting his own set of monkeys before being roped into helping the other passengers, and that’s why he couldn’t reach them before Albus. For all that he is ambitious and self-preserving, Severus has always had a streak of heroism he couldn’t beat dead. Possibly because it was already dead, or more accurately, it originated from someone that was.

 _Severus_.

At the beginning of this whole ordeal, Tom thought Voldemort had sent Nagini for _him_ —for _Tom._ Because he was associating with _Severus_ , a name that would surely send Voldemort into a apoplectic fit. But then, Nagini had sprung at _Harry_ — _Hadrian,_ and the conclusions cascaded into each other, one by one.

And Tom saw the chance to destroy Nagini.

So he took it.

Now, as he saw dark clouds billow in the mirror in front of him, he braced himself for the inevitable confrontation.

_Nagini is dead!_

It was a scream, a shrill, and a shriek, all rolled into one, that echoed from all directions.

The barriers he constructed in his mind was breached. Pierced by one sharp hand. The setting fell around him until Tom was standing in nothing but black. Goosebumps pricked at his skin, and Tom resisted shuddering.

_Nagini is dead and you let her die._

Tom gritted his teeth and stood his ground. “She attacked me.”

_She was my loyal soldier. She would not have done so without a reason._

Then, needles in his mind. A palm made of nothing but sharp, hot needles curled around him, and _yanked—_

And the agony had Tom collapsing on his knees.

Stinging, unrelenting pain ripped into him, and Tom saw, in front of his eyes, the event replaying by itself.

But Tom wasn’t without his own tricks.

His mind was being torn into, but he used the intensity of his pain as a focus. He blurred the image of Harry in his mind, he blurred the image of Severus, too. When the monkeys came, it had only been him reading in the compartment, and when Albus came, it had only been him fighting.

He twists to show Nagini lunging at him, and he bent to show how Albus’ hand slipped into the coat of his pocket—

—pulled out a handgun—

—and shot Nagini twice, the blast ringing his ears.

Voldemort would want to know why. Why had Nagini attacked Tom in the first place?

That, Tom could manifest too.

“Dark magic, of the likes I’ve never encountered before,” Albus said, while sipping his tea. “Gellert and I tried to agitate it. See if they could be controlled and its intent be reversed—”

Suddenly, the pain drew back, and Tom gasped for air.

 _That man,_ Voldemort hissed. _Albus. He is a problem._

“Powerful,” Tom choked out, before coughs wracked his body.

 _Formidable,_ Voldemort conceded. _He will be dealt with._

And the next time Tom blinked, he was back in the bathroom. His hands were still gripping the sink, and he was still staring at his reflection in the mirror.

His shoulders were shaking.

Voldemort has always prided himself on being unmatched. On being the only enemy that Voldemort could ever lose to.

He always seemed to forget that Tom was his past, too.

Taking a couple deep breaths, Tom wrangled his racing heart to a calm, steady beating, before going off to check on Harry.

 

* * *

 

Excusing himself, Harry made his way back to his compartment to find Tom. He left for the bathroom, but that was quite a while ago, so Harry assumed that he would be back at their compartment reading.

He was still reeling from the fight, and he wanted to get clean and a new set of clothes. Once that’s all sorted, he’s going to hound Tom for answers.

Because Harry’s been replaying the events in his mind and some things didn’t add up. Either Tom was very well-adjusted, and this wouldn’t surprise Harry at all, or he’s encountered this particular brand of magic before. Naturally, Harry had questions.

Lost in thought, he turned the corner and halted.

The corridor was dark.

Harry swallowed his unease, but he creeped closer to their compartment.

He’s being silly, there’s nothing to worry about. The lights must have been broken in the fight, and of course they couldn’t change it until they parked at the nearest station.

Now, if he could just open the door in front of him.

One hand on the doorknob, he took a deep breath and counted to three, before opening the door and stepping through—

—and found himself in his empty train compartment, no Tom in sight.

“Huh,” Harry murmured to himself. “See? That wasn’t that bad. Nothing here.”

Something rustled behind him.

Harry jolted from the shock, and before he could turn around, something heavy smacked against the back of his head.

He fell to the floor, and his vision blurred into darkness.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Divine art made by the absolute goddess Phoenixrisingdusk.  
> This chapter was written by nanimok.  
> Give them some love <3


	4. Chapter 3: Revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares continue to plague Harry.

 

 

 

 

 

Dark, ominous clouds rolled overhead, blotting the sun from the sky, but it did nothing to alleviate the summertime heat of Paris. It was humid enough that the air felt thick and heavy, making it uncomfortable to move or breathe. 

Even with the threat of the oncoming storm, the crowd in the square remained, hungry for retribution. They relished in it- the heat combined with the screams of the damned as one by one, the guilty approached the guillotine. 

And he was one of them.

People pressed in all around him, voices jeering and taunting. Projectiles thrown from the crowd would occasionally hit him, but he couldn’t feel a thing. Fear gripped him, numbing him to everything until his world was entirely disoriented. He knew nothing but the person in front and the one behind, the sharp yet easy voice that became each person’s Judgment, the sickening sound as the blade fell, the beating of his own heart that only grew more rapid the closer to the front he got.

He was barely a man himself, drawn into the line of fire by circumstance alone.

“Keep moving!” a brusque voice said from behind him, startling him into stepping forward. He hadn’t been aware of the line continuing to move forward in all of his thinking, hadn’t even known he’d stopped.

He glanced backward on a whim, saw someone that looked not much older than himself ushering the line forward. Despite their close proximity though, he couldn’t make out the details of what the man looked like. Tall, fair skin, dark hair. That was it. 

Upon the man snapping another command at him, he hastily focused his attention forward again, though he kept his eyes peeled to the ground. If he didn’t look at the guillotine, pretended it didn’t exist, maybe it wouldn’t anymore.

He would never know what urged him to look up when he did, what part of fate could be so cruel as to choose then for him to look. The moment he locked eyes with the woman on the platform that was next to be sentenced, he felt like the entire world around him slowed to a stop. His heartbeat was unnaturally loud in his ears, he was sure his face paled.

Inside him, something clicked.

Mother.

Bright red hair that seemed to glow like fire when the odd patch of light hit it just right, eyes that were as green as emeralds and wide in panic. Her lips formed words, his name, surely, but he didn’t hear.

He was numb to everything as she was forced toward the guillotine by another faceless person, as she was secured to the object of her doom.

As the blade fell.

His senses suddenly came rushing back to him as a piercing scream rent the air, and it took a moment for him to realize that the sound was coming from himself. He didn’t know her true significance, would probably never know, but he felt shattered.

As the next person in the line went, he was roughly pushed forward by the man with no face.

**“Move!”**

He stumbled forward and then suddenly he was before the steps of the platform, only a few people away from the guillotine. He hadn’t realized he’d been so close, hadn’t registered that he’d moved ever closer in the line all the while.

Panic rose in his throat.

He had no idea what he’d done to deserve this, what any of them had done to warrant their deaths, and the thought raced through his mind that he was too young to die.

He couldn’t do this.

This couldn’t be happening.

He was too young.

The man at his back had given up on verbal commands and had resorted to forcibly pushing him forward, one hand locked around his arm, the other on his back. Moving up the steps was full of fumbling on both of their parts; his feet felt like lead and didn’t want to move, and short of pushing him to the ground and being done with him, the faceless man somehow managed to maneuver them around, one foot and stream of swear words at a time.

Finally, after what seemed like forever and paradoxically no time at all, he stood on the platform alone. Around him it seemed like the cries of the crowd had suddenly grown so much louder,  so much more vehement than they had been for any of the other people.

The faceless man shoved him forward, and this time he did fall. A few people in the crowd jeered, but he had only ears for the soft, triumphant laughter of the man before him.

He was a tall, spindly man, pale as death, voice high and cold. Unlike the faceless man, he could make out every detail of his executioner’s face; one glance and it seemed to carve itself into his memory. His eyes seemed sunken in and were unnaturally colored, red as the blood that stained the ground they stood upon, and his skin was unnatural, pale and bubbled, like he had been sculpted out of wax on a hot summer day. 

He was hideous and Harry knew that underneath it was something else, that this was a disguise to hide the man’s true hideous visage. 

“Henri de Villefort,” the man began, and the crowd roared, calling for blood.

Calling for his blood.

Before the man could speak again, he knew his fate.

Everything seemed to move in a blur. 

The faceless man that led him up to the platform grabbed him, his grip firm and nails digging into his neck, pushed him forward.

The guillotine stood proud, the oaken wood nearly black with blood, it beckoned him.

His heart raced, he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, overwhelming the roar of the crowd. He pulled away, attempting to break free of the man’s nearly inhuman grasp on his neck.

It was all in vain. 

He stumbled over the rough hewn wood, his shoes catching on splinters that stabbed into his foot. The scent of blood, bile, and all the other bodily functions assaulted his senses as he grew closer to his execution. The blade gleamed, wet with the ichor of its last victim.

Struggling against the ropes that bound his hands did nothing as he was pressed down into the block that held him in place. The guillotine hungered, as did the crowd. 

Time seemed to slow to a near stop. The smells and sounds faded away as red eyes locked onto his and almost nonexistent lips curled into a smirk.

The blade fell.

Harry tumbled over and over, his head jarred suddenly as it stopped and he was looking up into the grey clouds and wicker. 

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t feel anything. There was a great sense of weightlessness. 

Harry tried draw in a breath, to fill those lungs that were no longer attached. To scream, to cry, to call for his mother, to pray and beg for god to find him. 

The edge of his vision grew dark. 

Was he dying?

A hand grabbed his hair and lifted him up, the sting on his scalp blinding. The blade of the guillotine was embedded in the segment where his neck was stretched, and Harry could tell that the wood was drenched with blood. There was moisture where his voice box should be, and Harry could feel wind brushing against it, tickling that spot cold.  

The world around him shifted, and his head swung from being turned. He could see his body, from the neck down, flopped on one side of the guillotine’s blade. 

He hung there limply, ichor dripping from his neck as he rotated around. He was no longer on the platform with the guillotine with the screaming crowd, but in a darkened, enclosed tomb. 

_ It was so cold. _

Brackets and chains accentuated the room but the only thing truly of note was the man who held him up by his bloodied hair. He was white as the grave and twice as hideous. 

“Harry Potter.”

A pale finger tapped Harry’s nose which caused him to spin around. 

“An interesting name, but I prefer the one you were born with,” the man chuckled and sat back, “Look at you, indulging in a trip to Paris, wrapping yourself in delusions of  _ safety.  _ Don’t you think you’ve gotten a little  _ ahead _ of yourself?” 

It was the monster. 

He looked different from where Harry had seen him last, similar to the nightmare he had before... Instead of warped, bubbling skin he looked like a skull with flesh pulled taut. A living skeleton with skin pale enough that it was translucent; red eyes, two slits in the place of nostrils and a lipless mouth that was pulled into a cruel, joyless smile. 

“Are you safe now? Will you be safe ever?” The monster shifted his grip and held Harry’s head in both hands. Sharp thumbnails were precariously close to Harry’s eyes, even if he couldn’t move, couldn’t cry, he wanted to. 

Oh, how he wanted to. 

The monsters voice lowered into a whisper, “You’ve grown into a beautiful young man. How could I not partake in a sin of the  _ flesh. _ ” 

What Harry had thought was a lipless mouth, was level with him, and the next moment Harry’s jaw was forced open and the monster was kissing him, forcing his tongue deep into his mouth and down into his throat. 

It seemed impossibly long. 

It  _ was _ impossibly long. 

Harry wanted to scream as he felt it slide further and further down, until he no longer felt it, and he knew that it had gone all the way through his… his… his  _ stump. _

He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t bite, he couldn’t do anything but blink, he was just a  _ head  _ but the sensation of being so absolutely filled and penetrated by a demons tongue in his mouth made it all so much worse. 

Silently, he begged for death. Pleaded that some higher power would deliver him this pain, this torment, this horror, this sense of violation that was much too intimate for anyone be it a lover, Satan, or even God. 

As quickly as it came, the tongue slid back up, through the opening at the bottom of Harry's neck. The powerful muscle seeming to writhe and taste him as it exited, stretching his wrecked throat, before stopping, pausing against his lips, and Harry could taste acrid blood, _ his  _ blood from where he had been decapitated, on the monster’s tongue.

“I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth. I will trail you and follow you every step that you make. I will be on your heels until the end of time, until you are so tired that you fall to your knees and beg me to take your life. I am coming for you, and you  _ will not _ escape me, not again.

“I will bring you pain, the type you can’t suffer silently. I swear it.” His fingers reached down towards the…  _ opening  _ at the bottom of Harry’s neck. 

Sharp nails penetrated into his throat, up into his neck, clawing inside before retreating and shifting to the edge, to the ragged skin that still pained Harry, that was raw, flayed nerves. 

They found purchase in his skin, separating the flesh from the muscle, sinew from bone. His fingers edged around, opening it further and further before he began to  _ peel _ Harry’s skin up, up and away from his head. 

Harry screamed even though he had no lungs, no power, he screamed in his mind as the skin lifted up, tearing away around his mouth. He screamed as it peeled off his nose, as his ears separated from his head, as his eyelids were ripped off, leaving him unable to hide away, even for a moment. 

He screamed as he fell with a thud to the the floor and watched as the monster turned his flesh inside out. 

He screamed a silent scream, even as the monster laughed at him. “Maybe I shall find your father’s corpse and put this on him. A final insult before I come to flay you.” 

The demon crouched down and smiled a smile that was all too sharp, “I will keep you alive like this. I will keep you and the traitors alive and in pain as I rip you into pieces, as I _ devour  _ you.”

Harry screamed as the monster began to shove his flesh into its mouth, tearing it into pieces and chewing it. 

“Harry!” He heard it once like it was coming from down a tunnel before an explosion of cold ripped him from his nightmare. 

He woke. 

Tom stood above him, an empty water pitcher in his hands, looking both concerned and perplexed. “Harry?” he questioned, and his tone made it clear that this wasn’t the first time he had tried to get his attention. “Are you all right?”

Harry sat up, wiping his his face off, “My head hurts.” His fingers rested on his neck, where the cut had been, where the monster’s fingers had been… it seemed  _ sore. _

It hit him like a freight train; the odd dreams, the monster attack, the fact that  _ Tom was reaching out to him-  _ it was too much.

Harry didn’t care what Tom would think of his tears, didn’t care that his shoulders shook as loud sobs wracked his body. For the first time in years he felt so  _ lost  _ and  _ helpless,  _ and he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to make it all end, and-

The man from his nightmare, no, the  _ demon,  _ had known him, had known his parents somehow, had violated him, had made him watch his parents die twice now in equally savage ways. 

Tom was suddenly  _ there,  _ pulling Harry into his arms and running a hand through his hair in a soothing motion. 

He whispered words of comfort to Harry, nothing that could be made out through the hysteria. It was Tom’s touch that grounded him, the slight tug on his hair thankfully not reminding him of the abuse the demon had put him through. 

After what felt like forever, Harry finally calmed down enough to lift his head from where he’d buried it in Tom’s chest.

Soft sunlight streamed through the window and illuminated the entirety of the compartment, marking the dawn. He couldn’t entirely remember how he’d gotten back to his bed last night, but he was grateful that he had indeed ended up in his own bed.

Frowning, he puzzled over the thought.

What  _ had  _ happened last night? He could easily remember the fight against the flying monkeys and the monstrous snake, he didn’t think he’d  _ ever  _ forget that, but… then what?

Something had hit him. He remembered the sudden, sharp pain to the back of his head, and then nothing else until he had woken up from the nightmares.

Perhaps…maybe  _ Tom  _ had been the one to make sure he’d gotten back to bed safe?

Trying hard not to blush and acknowledge the fact that he was still wrapped up in Tom’s embrace-  _ Tom was hugging him, comforting him, why-  _ Harry thought on that possibility for a moment.

It wasn’t all too far fetched, when he stopped to consider that Tom had claimed the bunk above him for himself - he’d probably stumbled across Harry and then moved him to his bed, likely grumbling all the while. Harry was probably going to get an earful about it later, knowing him.

Yes, that was a satisfying conclusion to come to. (He absolutely wasn’t going to think about the fact that he was still in Tom’s arms. He wasn’t.)

“Do you want to talk about it this time?” Tom asked with a raised eyebrow when Harry finally moved away from him, coughing out an apology.

“I…” Harry hesitated, not entirely sure if it were a good idea. Tom was probably only inquiring to be  _ considerate,  _ and he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

To his surprise though, Tom did not grow impatient when he didn’t speak right away, nor did he try to prompt Harry about it again. He was simply being there for Harry in the best way that he could, and it was for that reason that Harry decided to tell him about the dreams.

“It started the day after I met you,” Harry told him, looking down at where he’d clasped his hands in his lap. “ I’ve been having the  _ oddest  _ dreams. I’m in a different time for some, and people around me are dying.” He hesitated again then, swallowing nervously. “I can’t help but feel like…like I’m seeing my parents. I always feel this weird… _ connection  _ with two of the people and they always look the same.”

“…I see,” Tom finally said slowly. “Go on.”

“There’s these other dreams too,” Harry admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “With this… _ man.  _ He’s been in one of my other dreams, and in the ones with the people dying. But it’s different in these ones, he talks to me, touches me.” His voice hitched and he screwed his eyes shut, clenching his fists. “He- he says he’s coming after me, that he’s going to kill me.”

There was silence for a minute after he finished speaking before Tom said anything, and when he  _ did  _ speak, it was another calm “I see”.

“I just don’t know what to make of any of this,” Harry said, only talking now to fill the void of awkward silence.

“I do not think there is too much to be concerned about,” Tom said finally, returning a hand to card through Harry’s hair again. “Dreams, although they  _ can  _ reflect one’s inner turmoil, will often mean absolutely nothing. This could be a side effect of stress, a fevered dream brought on by your worries and need for perfection. I’m telling you now, once this entire charade is over, you will return to normal.

“You really think so?” Harry asked, stealing a quick glance at Tom.

The man’s expression was indecipherable, a fact that Harry had come to grow used to. His eyes, though, held a note of what might have been sympathy.

“I  _ know  _ so,” he told Harry firmly. He stood, offering a hand. “Come. Breakfast will be served soon, and there’s a lot to go over before we get to Paris.”

Harry nodded and took his hand, letting Tom pull him to his feet before he let go. A part of him wanted to thank the man for his show of comfort and support, but he was hesitant to actually voice the sentiment. Even in the short amount of time he’d known Tom, he’d quickly learned that he preferred to not have to deal with emotionally charged conversation.

Breakfast was an easygoing affair, all things considered. The food was fresh, neither of them mentioned the dreams again, and not even Snape’s withering morning glares could ruin the good mood Harry quickly found himself gaining.

“Pass the sugar,” Snape requested in a curt tone, one hand poised over his tea cup as if he expected someone to snatch it away from him.

Wordlessly, Harry complied and watched as Snape added no less than five sugar cubes to his tea. By his demeanor, Harry would have thought that he preferred his tea bitter rather than sweet, but perhaps Snape only wanted the sugar to drown out the poor taste.

Train food might have been more than they would have gotten back in St. Petersburg, but edible was about the only compliment that could come to mind to describe it.

“Alright,” Tom began in a quiet tone halfway through the meal. “Let’s begin. There aren’t a lot of people awake yet, so it’ll be better to revise for this part now rather than later.”

“Okay.” Harry nodded and set his fork down on his plate. “What do we start with?”

Tom looked him over once, an eyebrow raising. “For one, straighten your posture. A prince doesn’t slouch, ever.”

Blushing, Harry complied.

“Good,” Tom praised with a nod. “For starters, silverware and dining. Tell me, what do you know about how royalty dine?”

And so it went. Tom explained to him what the difference was between the salad fork and the dinner fork, which drinking glass to use when, and how delicately the silverware needed to be used.

“Remember, you’re a prince, not some common street ruffian,” Tom reminded him, rolling his eyes when Harry glared.

“Do you  _ really  _ think they’re going to quiz me on how to hold my fork?” Harry asked.

“They won’t,” Snape piped up. “But what do you think will happen in the event they invite you for dinner? They’d take one look at your appalling table manners and you’d be out the door before you could even try to convince them why you’re the long lost prince.”

“But I’m not,” Harry pointed out.

“Well yes, but they don’t need to know that.”

Harry rolled his eyes again, but didn’t protest when the dining lesson continued. They had a point, after all. He didn’t want to get halfway through the act of being Hadrian Romanov and then completely fail if they decided they’d talk over a meal.

Snape and Tom stopped drilling him once the train compartment began to get more full, instead preferring to finish up their breakfasts in total silence. Harry sipped quietly at his slightly bitter tea, enjoying listening to the conversation around them.

Just a little while later, they returned to their own compartment to relax for a little bit. Both Tom and Snape pulled out books to read, leaving Harry to stare out the window at the countryside passing by.

Despite Tom’s reassurances to not worry about the nightmares, Harry couldn’t help but think about them. He could see them play out before him every time he closed his eyes, could see the serpentine red eyes lock onto his, mouth curling into a smirk.

Worse yet was the image of the guillotine that stayed at the forefront of his mind, that he knew would haunt him forevermore. When he wasn’t distracted by thoughts of the snake-like man, he saw the silver metal of the blade that dripped fresh blood, the platform stained red, the almost unearthly green eyes of the woman he thought might have been his mother.

Those eyes would haunt him forever too.

Suppressing a shiver, Harry  quickly shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the thoughts. Tom was right, he hoped, in saying that the dreams would end after his meeting with the people that was soon to come.

“We’re only a few hours away from Paris,” Tom said, breaking the silence at long last. “There’s still a few things to go over before we get there.”

“Alright.” Harry nodded, grateful that Tom had seemed to realize that he needed the distraction- or even that he’d said it anyway, if he  _ hadn’t  _ noticed Harry’s disturbed state of mind. “What should we start with now?”

“Just some basic things,” Tom replied easily, placing his book on his lap and crossing his legs. “Like, for example, when was the prince born?”

“Doesn’t everyone know that though?” Harry asked him, his expression growing confused. “How’s that even going to matter?”

“It will matter because any and everything you can answer right will set you apart from those that cannot,” Snape replied quietly, his gaze briefly flickering up from his book. “Even if it  _ is  _ something simple like a birthdate, getting that one small fact wrong would be far more embarrassing than being prepared to get it right.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbled, looking down at his feet. “I see. In that case then, it’s the thirty-first of July.”

“Very good,” Snape intoned. “Where did the prince sleep?”

“Uhh….” Harry thought on that for a few moments. “I don’t know.”

“The royal family resided in the east wing of the palace. The prince slept in a room with a balcony overlooking the grounds; he liked to see the sunrise.”

“Okay,” Harry said, repeating back the information and committing it to memory. “East wing, balcony, sunrise. Got it.”

“Remind me who Sirius Black is again?”

Harry smiled; he knew the answer to this one easily. “The prince’s godfather.”

“He was also one of the king’s best friends,” Tom supplied with a nod. “And he is who you will be meeting tomorrow. You will need to make sure that your act is impeccable, that you will be able to fool him or else this will all be for naught.”

Harry swallowed down his nervousness. “I know,” his voice shook only lightly, a fact he could be pleased with. “It will be… I’ll do my very best.”

“Good.” Tom looked him over once, his gaze approving. “Get you dressed up a little better, take a comb to that nest you call hair, and we could make a prince of you yet. And who knows, maybe we’ll even let you stick around after the fact.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as something that felt oddly like hope welled up inside of him. Of course, he’d be a fool to want to stay with Tom and Severus, but he had never had a family for himself, and their train ride together had given him something much a companionship he’d always craved.

“I-”

“That’s neither here nor there, though,” Tom continued breezily, as if he  _ hadn’t  _ just upended Harry’s entire world with a single remark. “Now, let’s go on…”

Tom and Snape continued to quiz Harry on things they felt that he should know about the prince and the royal family, and alternatively taught him the things that he didn’t. And finally when countryside began to turn into homes and towering buildings, they proclaimed him ready, Tom with a wide smile and Snape with an expression of approval that mirrored the one Tom had given him earlier.

“I believe some celebratory dessert is in order,” Snape announced, standing. “I’ll go see if there’s anything in the food cart.”

And with that he was gone, leaving Tom and Harry by themselves. The silence between them wasn’t quite  _ awkward,  _ but the air was charged with something that hadn’t been there before, something that had seemed to manifest the moment Tom had comforted Harry that very morning. He wasn’t entirely sure just what it was,  but the thought crossed his mind that he might like to find out.

Instead of saying anything though, he turned his head to look out the window again. They weren’t quite in Paris yet, the town they were going through didn’t look like the photos Harry had seen of the bustling city, but the architecture was similar.

“We’ll be there soon,” Tom said, voicing Harry’s thoughts. “Are you excited? Nervous? What’s running through your mind right now?”

“Did you mean it? Earlier?” Harry asked, biting his lip.

He refused to look at Tom; he didn’t want to see what the expression on the man’s face would be. Scorn, rejection… he didn’t think he’d be able to take that after the past few days he’d had. They hadn’t been  _ bliss  _ exactly, but he thought that they might have been the closest to it he’d ever gotten, and just the thought that it could, that it  _ would  _ be ripped away from him within the next day…

Well. He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

“Did I mean what?” Tom asked, and his tone was normal, if not a bit confused.

“When you said…” Despite his efforts to remain calm and collected, Harry blushed. “Did you mean it when you said you’d let me stay? With you and Snape I mean, after we pull this all off? I mean, I don’t really know what your plans are, you haven’t divulged and I didn’t want to ask because it would be rude, but I don’t think I’d mind tagging along for it. If you don’t mind, of course.”

Silence.

With every heartbeat that passed in which Tom didn’t respond, Harry could feel a small part of him die on the inside as a plethora of emotions crashed over him.

_ Embarrassment. _

_ Humiliation. _

_ Shame. _

And just as Harry was about to open his mouth and apologize, to laugh it off and spin some grand tale of a life after today that he couldn’t even imagine living, Tom spoke.

“These past few days have been…nice,” he said slowly, as if the words were foreign to him and hell, with a living partner like Snape, they  _ might  _ have been. “Severus I’m sure will want to settle after this is all through, lead a quiet life. He wants nothing more than to forget about the past.” He paused for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do. Maybe travel, see the world, maybe settle in a place if it strikes my fancy. America’s always sounded like the best place to be, full of opportunity and choice. I suppose it wouldn’t be the worst if I had a companion.”

Harry glanced at Tom to find that instead of sarcasm and indignation, the man held a look of thoughtfulness about him. He definitely hadn’t  _ agreed  _ that Harry could fit anywhere in his plans…

…But he hadn’t said no either.

And that, more than anything else, was something Harry could take comfort in.

* * *

 

Voldemort pressed his hand against the black marble of the door. He hadn’t been completely honest with Nagini, there wasn’t anything he needed to do while she had went on ahead, it was that he had still been too weak to break the seal. 

The curse on the chain had been powerful, and he knew that Severus had poured almost all of his power into it to keep him bound, but it had broke and he had needed to recover. 

During the decade that he had spent locked up he had healed, his body had reformed but he couldn’t awaken, he had been completely beholden to the damn curse. 

He pressed his magic against the door and analyzed how much would be needed to break free. Voldemort drew his power towards his core before releasing it in a powerful, scorching hot outward blast which blew the doors off their hinges and cracked the walls of the tomb that he had been bound to. 

For the first time in over a decade he stepped out into the fresh air, “I am coming for you, Chosen One.” He whispered before taking to the skies. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter written by Angel_of_Mysteries, and darklordtomarry. Snape clothing sketches by darklordtomarry


	5. Chapter 4: False Facade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, Snape and Tom arrive in France and meet Sirius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter was written by renderedreversed, nanimok, cybrid and darklordtomarry.

  


Paris was bustling and beautiful in a way Harry’s never seen before. Sprawling, bursting with people that snubbed him and Tom at first glance, but Harry didn’t mind that. He was too attracted to the stalls, and the wares being sold. To the shops, and the colours, and the people walking their dogs, sipping their cups outside, or watching the tourists walk by.

Maybe it was because he was free, and he had his own independence. Maybe it was because he was with _Tom_ , but this whole city was vibrant and vivid in a way nothing has ever had before.

Really, Harry mused, it was the _food_ that won him over.

“Harry, you need to slow down,” Tom said. “If you don’t, you’re going to choke. Or worse, vomit all over my shoes.”

Cheeks stuffed to the brim, Harry mumbled at him.

Tom tipped one ear towards him. “Pardon me?”

Harry swallowed before talking. “I’m glad you have your priorities straight.”

“Leather, Harry,” Tom said. “Three words; expensive leather shoes.”

Harry rolled his eyes, before mentioning him closer, and pointing to one of the shops. “Tom, be a darling and get me one of those.”

Tom sighs, but it’s nowhere near as exasperated as it could be. “It’s rude to point, Harry.”

“ _Tom.”_

“I’m going. I’m going.”

And so it went, with Harry dragging Tom to multiple stores and restaurants, sitting him down, and inhaling whatever food was placed in front of him.

Harry was lankier then built, so Tom was confused as to where he was storing all these food. Tom hated to admit it, but Harry’s taste buds were more adventurous than his. He found the frog legs pleasing, but nothing special. The escargots left him frowning at the slimy texture, but the buttery taste mixed with garlic was more than exceptional.

Harry beamed at him over his snail fork, and Tom’s heart skipped a beat.

Tom couldn’t say that the company wasn’t pleasant.

“I’ve decided that I like this the best,” Harry announced, holding a bag of tarts in one hand.

After their great food adventure, Tom couldn’t bear to eat any more, less he exploded. Harry, however, looked as if he could go a couple more rounds. So he suggested a walk through one of the more popular paths to take in Paris to give Tom time to digest his food. They passed a bakery, Harry’s gaze was so longing, it bordered on pathetic.

Obviously, that was the only reason that Tom bought the treats for him. To stop the pathetic look on Harry’s face. It was embarrassing if left alone.

Obviously.

They passed many beautiful shrubberies and decorated ponds as they strolled along the cobbled road. Harry’s mind, however, seemed to be focused only on one thing—his food.

“It’s delicious!” Harry said. “You have to try one, Tom. Try one!”

Conceding, Tom took the tart Harry handed him and bit into it.

His tongue was assaulted in by sugar from every direction.

“A treacle tart?” he asked. “Really, Harry?”

Harry was too busy munching to look offended. “What do you mean?”

“You come to Paris—a city renowned for its cuisine and pastry—you try her food, all she has to offer, and you choose a British dessert as your favourite?”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek and shrugged. He threw Tom a smile.

“Can’t always help what I like,” Harry said.

For some reason, he was flushing, and that was unacceptable. Tom turned his attention elsewhere and spots a massive tower of steel and black. “Let’s walk towards the Tower,” Tom said, guiding Harry by the elbow. “I want to see what all the controversy is about.”

“Controversy?”

“The tower garnered criticism from all fronts, you see,” Tom said, looking up to admire curving steel and the lattices above them. “From people who detested it from a construction and artistic point of view.”

“So some people protested because they thought a building was ugly?” Harry snorted. “Must  have a lot of time on their hands.”

“Indeed. They called the Tower useless and monstrous. A gigantic black smokestack that crushed other historic buildings under it,” Tom said, a little awed. “It is a bit like a short stack, isn’t it, with the lattices? Regardless, it’s marvellous. Imagine being the man who designed it. The man who was ambushed at all sides with censure and condemnation, yet he defied all that criticism and built one of the most iconic buildings in the world. One that would last through time.”

Harry hummed. “Sounds like something you’d do.”

Tom turned. “Pardon me?”

“Tom,” Harry said, grinning. “I don’t need to know you for that long to know that you live to make a statement. What’s more of a statement than a tower that offends every known critic within a fifty-mile radius with its structure, it’s design and, inevitably, it’s success?”

Finally, Tom gives into the smile that’s been twitching to escape since the beginning of the trip.

“Besides,” Harry said framing the tower with his hands. “It really is quite monstrous—in size, at least. It’s hard to miss. You would literally need to be blind to miss it. It’s bloody huge!”

Tom chuckled, peeking through Harry’s framed hands. The tower stands tall, grand and majestic even with fingers surrounding it.

Beautiful.

“That, indeed,” Tom said. He took another glance at Harry, still finding him enamoured with the sounds and sights, but something about it was...off.

He was sure Harry genuinely was in awe of Paris, coming from a little orphanage in the middle of nowhere to _here_ , the big city, a place so different from everything he’d ever known, but--

“Are you nervous?” Tom asked.

Harry whipped his head around. “N-nervous? About what?”

“Tomorrow.”

Harry dropped his hands, the rest of his body drooping with the movement, too. He was always so expressive with himself, so open that it was hard not to be endeared. Dear God, even when he looked troubled it was attractive--

“No,” Harry said, and then, “A little. Maybe. Okay, a lot, I’m a lot nervous. What if--what if they can tell? What if they _know_ that I’m not their Hadrian?”

Tom snorted. “Please, we’ve prepared you for this--everything you have to know is all in that pretty little head of yours. A pretty little head that, might I remind you, looks exactly like how the prince would’ve looked like. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Harry sighed. “You say that, but…”

“But?”

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly.

“It wasn’t nothing, or you wouldn’t have said it,” Tom said. “Try me.”

Harry spun away, set on looking anywhere but Tom. “I didn’t say anything.”

“ _You did_ , Harry. Now, tell me what unreasonable thought you just had so I can _show you_ how unreasonable it is.”

For a moment, Tom didn’t think he’d get anything out of him. He was about to sigh and suggest they go somewhere else, but before he could, Harry spun back around and asked,

“What happens after?”

“‘After’?” Tom parroted.

“Either—either they believe me, they believe I’m the long-lost prince that they’re looking for, or they don’t. But what happens—what happens after that?”

“We split the prize money and go on our merry way, of course.” Tom thought it was obvious.

“Yes, but--okay, assuming that I pass inspection, won’t they—won’t they want me? To stay? With them?”

Tom paused and considered it. Black, he knew, probably would, but it had never seemed like a pressing factor. Harry was an adult now; they couldn’t keep him if he wanted to leave. The money was enough that even after the equal cut, Harry would be able to do practically anything he wanted for the rest of his life.

But what if...what if what he wanted to do was live life as the prince? No, not royalty, not anymore, but to live life with a _family_?

“I think,” Tom began, “that you can do what you want to do, afterwards. They can’t stop you if you want to leave, but if you want to stay with them, there are worse people to be around, I suppose.”

Harry looked like he wanted to say something else. He opened his mouth a few times, a complicated expression on his face, before he finally settled on, “Okay. I’ll...keep that in mind.”

Tom inclined his head. He also found that he really didn’t want to be outside anymore; something odd was building in his chest, an unnerving feeling that he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was tomorrow’s events—maybe it was Voldemort. He tried to shake it off.

“We should review before tomorrow,” he said. “We may have prepared you, but it wouldn’t hurt to practice a little more. Let’s go back.”

* * *

 

Mr Lupin was a mild-mannered man. Unfailingly polite, and, when he smiled, he had wrinkles on the corner of his eyes that softened the impeccable, sharp way that he dressed.  After introductions were made, he engaged Tom in a conversation about subjects that flew over Harry’s head. He did, however, make several attempts to bring Harry into the conversation, which Harry appreciated. It was what led to the conclusion that Mr Lupin was a kind soul.

Mr Black, on the other hand.

“So,” Sirius Black began, hands behind his back as he stared out the window. Harry vaguely remembered both Tom and Snape telling him something about ‘power moves’ the nobility tended to pull, but all that knowledge had gone in one ear and out the other.

“Snape brought you here,” Sirius said, in a manner that was more statement than inquiry.

It did confirm one of Harry’s suspicions; Snape, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black were acquainted with each other, and quite well, by the severe way Sirius frowned when saying Snape’s name.

Where did Tom fit in all of this? And why did he always feel familiar to Harry?

Harry waited for Sirius to continue.

He didn’t.

The silence that fell between them was, frankly, quite awkward.

Harry wrung his hands together and shifted from foot to foot, he was used to this, used to the silence that someone in a superior position would use to get him to talk. The matron had been fond of doing so and the younger children would start spilling their secrets like they were rotten goulash. Harry knew better than to say anything and was determined to wait him out.

One power move could meet another.

“Um,” Harry said, intelligently. “How did you know the Tsarina and—”

“Pardon me,” Sirius interrupted. “I believe I was asking the questions here.”

Harry snapped his jaw shut.

 _Dick,_ Harry thought in his head, but he said nothing. Tom did tell him to behave.

“Where have you been for the last ten years?” Sirius demanded.

Harry took a deep breath, “I’ve been in an orphanage and until recently I didn’t know who I was.” Harry paused and looked towards the window. They had decided to mix some truth with the lies, “Once I left the orphanage I made my way to the Winter Palace and I remembered who I was.”

Sirius’ lips were a thin flat line, “Of course you did. Tell me about what you remember when you were seven?” Sirius made a motion with his hand. “When the fire happened.”

Harry was sure the fire happened when he was a baby. What trick was Sirius trying to play? That’s stupid, of course, he’d be slipping these things in to catch out the frauds that no doubt came in droves for the reward money. The question was if Harry should play along since being too finicky about these details seems highly suspicious. Tom did say that the prince wasn’t the most observant.

Harry decided to play along. “Not much,” he said. “It was a long time ago, and my memory that night is hazy at best.”

Sirius’ jaw hardened. “I bet.”

“Well, there was a fire and I had been asleep for most of it,” Harry looked away towards the window and attempted to look despondent, “There was screaming and gunshots and yelling but, honestly, it’s a blur.”

Tom had detailed that the prince had slept through most of the commotion, only awakening before the Tsarina had met her end. Anything after that was a mystery to Tom as he had been incapacitated during that time, apparently succumbing to the smoke that had filled the area of the palace he had been in.

“Of course. Everyone knows that. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t already know?” He was leaning forward, looking like a predatory dog that was ready to bite into Harry and tear him apart. Years of seeing frauds had clearly gotten to him.

“Fine,” Sirius said. “Which of these did the Tsarina prefer: her pearls or her gold-chain necklace?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“If you were the prince you would notice that she wore one more much more frequently than the other.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t seem relevant,” Harry said, forgetting himself. “I was a _child_ —why would I be noticing these things?”

“So you admit that you don’t know?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Yes. I don’t.”

“What did James like to drink before he went to bed every night?”

Snape mentioned this one once. “Whiskey.”

“Wrong,” Sirius said. “Bourbon.”

 _Fuck,_ Harry thought.

And on it went, relentless and without a second to stop and breathe. Which was the Tsarina’s favourite handmaiden? Which horse did the Tsar like best? Which member of the family owned a handgun and had the official licence to shoot it?

Harry didn’t know any of this. It was impossible to know any of this. Even if he was Hadrian, he would have been very _young._ What child paid attention to these sorts of things?

Black was nitpicking for dust mites instead of details.

“The Tsarina liked to sing the prince to sleep,” Sirius said. “Tell me, _Hadrian._ What lullaby did she sing to soothe Hadrian to sleep?”

Suddenly, Harry thought of the red-haired woman in his dreams. Maybe it was her hair, and how it matched the Tsarina, that had his mind pairing her with a lullaby that seemed to echo in Harry’s mind ever since he was little.

Before he could second-guess himself, Harry named the song from his memories.

That stopped Sirius short.

“That was Hadrian’s favourite, I’ll give you that,” Sirius said. “But that’s not the one she sang to put him to sleep.”

A lump grew in his throat, one so big, it threatened to choke him.

“Do you think this is funny?” Sirius asked. “I’m looking for my godson, who’s been missing for god knows how long, and I thought that finally, with Severus bringing you here—” he broke off, one hand rubbing his face, “—but I was wrong. Unbelievably so; you can’t even answer _one god damn question_ _right._ If you’re really Hadrian, then why the hell can’t you?!”

Harry swallowed and looked away, severely aware that he was failing both Severus and Tom. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Clearly. _Get out._ ”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, _get out_. This is a waste of both our times, but more importantly, it’s a waste of mine,” Sirius said, crossing his arms. “Out of all the fakes I’ve seen, you’re by far the worst. You get every answer wrong, but instead of bailing out, you have the _audacity_ to stand there and act like you still belong here.

“It was only out of consideration for Severus that I met with you today. Now, _out_ , before I call the police.”

* * *

 

Harry stumbled out of the room, shaken and off balance and into Lupin. The tired-looking man was giving him a sad look from his brown soulful eyes, “I take it that was a no, hmm?” Remus placed a hand on Harry’s back, “I have to admit you look like James, but. . . Sirius is the ones with all the facts.”

Harry wipes at his eyes, trying to push the tears further back, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I understand how hard it can be.” Lupin reached into his pocket and pressed some money into his hand, it wasn’t enough to buy a boat passage to America or even England but it was enough to eat for the week.

They stood with the door between them, Remus inside and Harry not.

“Enjoy Paris. Harry…?”

“Potter,” Harry said, voice wan.

Remus stood straighter. “ _Pot_ ter?”

“Yes,” Harry said, although his mind was a million miles away. “I didn’t have a last name and the matron found me in a pot, you see.”

A series of expressions twists and flashed through Remus’ face, and he settled on a blank expression.

“In a pot,” Remus mutters to himself. “But you didn’t get any of Sirius’ questions right?” he asked Harry.

There was a pang in his stomach. “No,” Harry said, looking down. “No, I couldn’t get anything right.”

With that, he guided Harry out the door and locked it with a heavy, almost deafening click.

He didn’t know how long he stood out in the hallway, tears falling onto the carpet. This was his one chance. He didn’t speak French or English and now he was out here in a world he was unfamiliar with and hardly any money. He had failed Tom and Snape and now they would starve, or the other two would abandon him to suffer the streets of Paris…

At least it was warmer here.

He eventually managed to suppress the tears and made his way to the elevator. The man paid no attention to him except to take him down to the first floor.

How was he supposed to go and face Snape and Tom?

Tom who had spoken of America and travel was now trapped here as much as Harry was, except Tom knew more than one language and was talented… and handsome.

He would fit into Paris perfectly and he would have no need of Harry.

* * *

Voldemort travelled above the clouds.

Soon.

* * *

 

Tom had taken Harry’s hand when he had left the building. Tom had taken the news well, had hardly said anything but had started walking with Harry through a variety of places and pushed some food into his hand.

They were in a park that looked like it belonged outside of Paris instead of in the centre of it.

"And that's when Snape put on his favourite hat - the one with a stuffed vulture perched on top, and picked up his big red handbag--"

Wait.

"What?"

"Oh good, you were listening," Tom said, smiling to take the sting out of the words.

Harry ducked his head, a blush dusting his features. "Sorry."

"Will you still talk to me, when you're Prince Hadrian?" Tom mused aloud. His voice was rueful, but his eyes danced.

Harry smacked him on the shoulder. "I thought you were meant to be distracting me! Don't bring it up!"

Tom laughed, rubbing his arm. "Such violence-- I thought Snape and I had trained that kind of ungentlemanly behaviour out of you."

Harry didn't dignify that with an answer. They walked on, past a pond and a thicket of trees. For a park so close to the centre of the city, it had a wonderfully secluded atmosphere.

"Of course I would," Harry said, many minutes later.

"Hmm?"

"Talk to you."

Tom smiled. "I look towards to it, then."

Harry looked away - worry gnawing at him again. "But it's not a done deal yet, is it? We still have to convince Sirius and Lupin - I don't know how we can. Sirius saw right through me."

"We'll convince them."

Harry wanted to let himself be reassured by Tom's absolute certainty.

"But . . . I mean, you came all this way for me," he said softly. "I don't want to let you down."

Tom tutted. The unexpected sound made Harry lift his eyes from the fallen leaves to his face.

"Oh dear," Tom sighed. "I really am not doing a good enough job. Just tell me I'm useless, why don't you?"

"That's not what I meant--"

"I'll have to up my game," Tom lamented. His eyes panned to the mature trees and dense undergrowth that surrounded the path, then back to Harry. He raised a speculative eyebrow. "I know one thing that would take your mind off it?"

Harry did not immediately make the connection. Then it clicked.

"You want to--" Harry began, blushing furiously. "Tom, no!"

"I see," Tom sighed, putting on a doleful expression. "I'm useless _and_ unattractive."

"You know perfectly well you’re not. Don't guilt trip me!"

"Whyever not then?"

"But in the bushes though?" Harry asked, smiling, despite himself, at Tom's playful tone. "Is this any way to woo me?"

Tom rubbed his chin in a parody of thought. "I suppose we could go find a hotel, but why bother? There's no one else here." He stepped closer and brushed a strand of hair behind Harry's ear. "It's just you and me. Nothing else matters."

"Tom--"

"They say Paris is a city for lovers. If there is ever a time and a place, it is this time, this place. Who knows what the future will bring."

Harry's thoughts faded into perfect stillness. The world seemed to narrow down to focus on Tom as he gently took Harry's hand and raised it to his mouth. He kissed his knuckles, one by one, and Harry shivered at the featherlight touch.

"I can do a better job of distracting you, Harry. All you have to do is say yes."

Harry shuffled a little on his feet as nerves warred with excitement. What would Tom do to him if he agreed? Would he be disappointed in Harry? Or pleased?

Tom waited patiently.

"Yes," Harry whispered finally, so softly that the sound was like wind rustling in the leaves.

* * *

 

Harry was so dreadfully trusting, Tom thought as he led him off the path by the hand, helping him into the bushes as he would a grand carriage. It was quiet in the little forest; the sounds of the city gradually dropped away as they progressed deeper and deeper. Presently they came to a small clearing, a circular well of sunlight cut into the trees. A wizened little apple tree, heavy with the first fruit of the year, presided at the centre.

Tom stopped and turned to Harry. He was still smiling, even though his fingers were a little sweaty in his.

"Would you do me the honour?"

"Of what?" Harry asked.

Tom pulled him in and kissed him lightly on the lips. It was a peck, a tease, calculated to leave him wanting more. It worked, because Harry chased him, leaning up to catch his mouth again.

Tom let Harry experiment for a while, let him lick along the seam of his lips and tentatively explore his mouth. Then he took control, angling Harry's head with a hand twisted in his hair. To his delight, the boy yielded with a needy sigh.

Seduction was a game Tom had played countless times before. Sex was a tool, a method of persuasion. There was no better time to wring out someone's deepest, darkest secrets than when they lay together, breathy and sated.

And yet, kissing Harry sparked the most unexpected flutter in his chest.

Tom squashed it down ruthlessly. It wouldn’t do any good to pity Harry.

(And pity was _definitely_ all it was)

Tom laid him down on the fallen leaves, nestled between two roots. Harry went easily, and Tom divested him of his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt until his pliant body was spread out before him like an offering.

He sat back then, staring down at Harry. Harry glared, embarrassed at the scrutiny, and tried ineffectually to cover himself. Tom smiled apologetically and gently, but firmly, pulled his hands out of the way while he squirmed.

He knew he was pushing things fast with Harry, but it had to be done.

After all, Voldemort would want to fuck him too.

The thought was more uncomfortable than it should have been. Harry had grown on Tom. If he had to give Harry to Voldemort - and it seemed he did - he did not want Harry to go to him a virgin.

And it would _eat_ at the bastard, knowing Tom had got there first.

Tom lent down and trailed his tongue up the column of Harry's throat, then sucked a mark just beneath his jaw as Harry's Adam's apple bobbed nervously. His fingers mapped out the rest of his body like an explorer in an uncharted land. Harry cried out, scandalised when his thumb and forefinger pinched a nipple and _twisted_. Tom ignored him, as he worked his way down his chest until his teeth nipped sharply at his thigh.

Harry's cock was fully hard and leaking steadily. Tom breathed on it and smiled, all teeth, as it jerked.

"What a lewd sight," he teased.

"Fuck off!" Harry snarled. He was about something else, but it turned into a garbled cry when Tom swallowed him down to the root, in one long, easy motion.

"Nnngh!"

Tom would have smiled. Instead, he bobbed his head up and down. It had been a while since he'd done this, but the technique came back to him quickly enough.

Harry sobbed aloud. He tried to buck up into his throat, but Tom pinned his hipbones to the grass, gripping hard enough to leave bruises. Harry scrabbled desperately at the ground instead; one hand clung to a tree root while the other threaded through Tom's hair.

It took very little work on Tom's part. He hummed around the cock in his mouth and swirled his tongue around the head on each upwards stroke, and a few moments later Harry was coming.

Tom let his softening cock slip out of his mouth and swallowed, almost without meaning to.

Harry was _wrecked_. Panting; eyes bright and legs akimbo. He gazed at Tom with something like wonder.

It was a very satisfying sight.

"You haven't -- you know," Harry said, blushing. His eyes were on the bulge in Tom's trousers.

Rather than answer, Tom lifted Harry's leg gently and pressed a kiss to the soft skin of his inner thigh. Harry shivered, watching him through hooded eyes. His cock twitched in interest, but it was far too soon for him to be ready again.

Those eyes widened as Tom put the leg over his shoulder, and withdrew a little crystal phial from his pocket. He poured a measure of the liquid it contained onto his fingers and rubbed them together to warm it.

"You came prepared," Harry said ruefully. He propped himself up on one elbow to watch.

"I like to be spontaneous."

"You are so full of it!" Harry laughed, vivid green eyes full of mirth.

Tom grinned in acknowledgement, and, moving slowly so as not to startle Harry, slid a wet finger down his taint to circle the dusky skin of his hole.

Harry's snickers ceased abruptly as Tom pressed the digit inside. Tom watched his face with rapt attention, fascinated by his fleeting expressions; surprise, discomfort, curiosity. It was a very intrusive feeling, Tom knew, to have something in you for the first time. Tom slid it deeper, up to the second knuckle, and then pumped it in and out while Harry wriggled, trying to adjust. He added another finger and crooked them, feeling for it--

"Fuck!"

Harry's whole body jolted, then shivered all over, mouth dropping open and cock springing to half-mast in an instant.

He grabbed for Tom's arm. " _What was that_?"

Tom smirked, cat-canary, and did it again, then began thrusting his fingers in and out, stretching him in earnest. Harry, excited now, bucked his hips down, seeking a deeper penetration.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, Tom unzipped his trousers, pulled out his leaking cock and retrieved the little bottle from where it lay on the ground next to them. He poured some of the lubricant onto his hand and, groaning, used it to stroke his own neglected cock.

He hitched Harry's leg higher on his shoulder, and the boy eagerly wrapped the other around his waist and nodded. Tom lined himself up and finally laid a claim to him.

"Ah!" Harry shouted and grabbed for the back of his shirt. They both gasped aloud as Tom slid deeper, Tom in pure, unadulterated pleasure; Harry in some degree of discomfort. He didn't ask Tom to slow down though, and his cock was fully hard still, trapped between them. A masochist perhaps. Who would have thought it?

Tom finally stilled when he was all the way inside, as deep as he could go. Harry was unprecedentedly hot and tight. His inner walls flexed as he tried hopelessly to relax, to accept the intrusion. Tom bit down on his lip; it was almost painful to stop, but he had to wait for Harry to adjust--

"What are you stopping for?" Harry asked, staring up at him in confusion.

Okay then. Tom pulled out and thrust back in again, setting a fast pace. Harry didn't seem to care; he egged him on, clutching at the collar of his shirt and moaning brokenly whenever Tom's cock _ground_ against his prostate. Unable to resist the temptation, Tom leant down to kiss him, bending him almost in two, and Harry groaned as the new angle let him thrust impossibly deeper.

* * *

 

Harry lay on his back, sated and pleased, if a little sore. Tom lay on his side next to him, drawing patterns onto his bare stomach. Above them, the branches of the apple tree spread out like a bower.

"You know, I think this is the most relaxed I've ever seen you," Tom said. "If I'd known, I would have fucked the nerves out of you sooner."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Always so smug."

Tom laughed easily and nipped at his ear with his teeth.

It made Harry smile. He felt more settled in his skin somehow; more confident about his place here. If Tom had been planning to leave, he wouldn't have fucked him like that, surely?

Suddenly, he wanted to know for certain. "Will . . . will it be okay?" he asked. "I mean if we can't convince Sirius and Lupin. You'll stay?"

Tom leant up on an elbow so he could stare down into Harry's eyes. "Do you trust me?"

Harry nodded, surprising himself with how little thought he needed to answer that question.

"Then it will be okay."

Harry reached up and tucked a curl behind his ear. There was a flash of -- something -- in Tom's eyes at the gesture, but then it was gone.

The sun was lower in the sky when they finally left the leafy sanctuary. Harry felt bubbly, filled with warmth and light--

As Tom had filled him earlier.

Harry flushed at the filthy thought. His clothes were immaculate; Tom had passed him a handkerchief and brushed off the leaves and dirt. But inside--

Harry shifted uncomfortably and grimaced at the wet feeling.

* * *

 

“Severus.” Remus stood outside the door and looked at Snape.

Snape’s face was a furious scowl, “What? Came here to have the boy arrested for masquerading as Hadrian?”

Remus shook his head, “No. Severus, I think he’s actually Hadrian. I think you thought you had a fake but, I think he’s the real one.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We never told anyone this but we hid him in a pot on a boat. That’s how he went missing.”

Snape's sallow face grew ashen, “We need to find them. Tom said they were attacked by a snake.”

“... The serpent that killed James?”

“It could have been.” Snape idly rubbed his arm, “I felt stirrings of power from Russia as we were leaving and the attack on the train… but _how_? The curse I put on the Dark Lord would only allow him to be freed if Hadrian came into physical contact with him.”

Remus licked his lips, “We need to find them.”

* * *

 

Harry’s feet hurt but he didn’t mind the pain. Tom had taken him all around Paris, giving him the tour and easing his mind over the stress. It had been pleasant and now it was near nightfall and they were in _Place de la Concorde._

It had seemed familiar and made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand to attention. It was empty except for a few people who were hurrying out as dusk approached. The two fountains rumbled nearby and the obelisk stood menacingly, it’s shadow stretching across the ground.

“Storm is coming.” Tom muttered, “We should get back to the hotel soon.”

Harry shook his head and walked further into the grounds. His heart was racing.

He knew this place. He had been here before, but it was impossible. He had never been out of Russia… _but he had been here before._

The Nightmare. The nightmare! The bloody nightmare.

He ran forward, his eyes glancing at the skyline as he lined up the obelisk and the buildings and the fountains with what he had seen.

How was this possible. How?

His heart pounded in his throat, sweat dripped down his face.

Paris. Paris. Revolution. Beheadings. Executions. They had talked about it. They had talked about it when teaching about the bourgeois being executed. The elite. The highborn all dead. Heads chopped off.

Guillotine.

Clouds. Stairs. Storm. Mother. Blood. Judgement. Pain.

“Harry!” Tom grabbed his arm and swung him around, “What’s wrong with you!?”

Harry looked at Tom like he was seeing him for the first time. “You. You were there.”

“I was where?”

“Here.”

Tom’s face was etched in confusion.

“You… you took me to the guillotine. You and _he_ were both there. He sentenced me and you… you held me down.” Harry slowly lifted his gaze to Tom, “You’ve been there more than once. You’ve killed me before.

Tom’s face was ashen, his eyes wide. He let out a small, shocked, “Yes,” before clapping his hands over his mouth.

Harry’s heart raced and he began to back away. It was all coming back. It wasn’t just France. It was France, and Culloden, and Rome, and Bucharest, and Budapest. This had happened before and was going to happen again.

A white-faced man with red eyes and murder in his veins.

Always the instrument of Harry’s demise.

“Are you going to kill me again?” Harry growled, ready to attack someone he had just begun to think of as important.

Tom bit his lip and looked to the sky, his eyes dark and gaze heavy, “Not me… but him. Voldemort. He will. He’s coming. He’s coming to kill you.”

Harry balled his hand into a fist and struck out hard, knocking the older man back, and then he ran. Panic flowed through his veins. He wanted to ask _how_ this could have happened, it was centuries ago, but he knew in his heart that it _had_ happened. He knew it in his soul, in his bones and he knew that if he didn’t run he was going to die.

He crossed the bridge, he ran through parks, past churches, and past people hurrying home. He ran through the city, he ran until his legs burned, he ran until he couldn’t run anymore.

Harry didn’t know where he was, he had slipped through some gates and had travelled downwards and into a tunnel. He felt drawn to it. Like something had hooked into his navel and dragged him this way.

Skeletons surrounded him. Skulls stacked in the walls stared at him.

Was this where his parents had been buried? Had he been buried here? Was he a skull from centuries ago?

A cold voice cut through the dead air of the catacombs, “So nice of you to finally join me, Hadrian.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art is by the divine stokiometry.


	6. Chapter 5: A Prophecy Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations.

 

Fear froze him in place. 

He couldn’t have made it far into wherever this was.  He could still run - he could still get out of this and back to safety - but he couldn’t get his feet to move.

His hand pulsated in pain as Tom crossed his thoughts; surely, Tom would be chasing after him?  Tom might have been there when Voldemort had killed him, but Tom still  _ needed _ him, and letting him die was probably not what he had planned… unless this was part of the plan.

His heart ached at the thought that Tom had  _ planned _ this, and that was enough to give him the strength to turn.

It was too late; something froze him into place.  Chills ran down his back as he realized he couldn’t move an inch, and this time, it wasn’t because he was too full of fear.  No, this time, there was something bearing down onto him, making it hard for him to even breathe.

“Leaving so soon?”  The words sounded amused this time, and  _ closer _ .  There were no footsteps sounding through the chamber, but Harry knew the owner of the voice was moving toward him.  He could feel it after all; it was the same feeling that had drawn him here. 

Goosebumps rose on his skin, and Harry stared into the darkness, willing his eyes to get used to it enough that he could see into it.  

“After all this time, won’t you stay, Hadrian?” 

A light came into being, green, but dim enough that it didn’t sear his eyes.  That way, he could see what the light revealed right away, and Harry was sure the  _ monster _ had planned this…

Fear came back even harsher than before, his heart wrenching in pain as he realized what stood there.

His nightmare had come to life.

And this time, Harry was sure he wasn’t dreaming; the pain in his hand from punching Tom was more than enough to serve as a reminder.

The monster’s face was drawn into a mockery of a smile; his red eyes gleaming in triumph as they stared unblinking at Harry.  But something was different this time around. The monster no longer looked like a living skeleton…

He looked as he could pass as a human, and even without hair and a distinct lack of a nose, he was still a man.  And the features were clear enough even with skin paler than he had ever seen on anyone before that he reminded Harry of Tom.

It was then Harry knew, without a doubt, that the monster standing in front of him was Voldemort.

“Voldemort,” he breathed involuntarily in the wake of his realization. Horror and fear were ridiculously easy to hear in his voice, and he clamped his mouth shut afterward, shame curling through him. 

He survived Voldemort once before; he had survived the orphanage, the trip to Paris, and even falling in love with a man that  _ betrayed _ him, he would survive this monster.  He was sure of it; Harry never gave up and he wasn’t intending to let Voldemort scare him.

“You remember me,” said Voldemort, in response, and Harry wanted so badly to take a step back as the monster got even closer, but the magic was still bearing down onto him; in fact, it seemed to get even stronger the closer Voldemort moved.  Now, the air felt tense enough that Harry’s head was starting to spin in the proximity, and all he could remember was the feel of that monster’s tongue down his throat…

“Of course you do,” continued Voldemort, his voice dropping down into a low hiss, “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.  You remember the pain I’ve caused you…” Quicker than he could react, Voldemort had reached up, his long, cold fingers suddenly on Harry’s cheek.  “Emotional, of course, I haven’t had the pleasure of doing something physical until now.” 

Pain blossomed in sharp pin pricks on his face, and warm blood started to drip down his face in rivulets.  Red coated Voldemort’s long fingernails, and Harry could do nothing but stare in horror as Voldemort brought one of his fingers to his mouth.  The tongue Harry had seen in his nightmares...had felt intimately...wrapped itself around the finger, sucking Harry’s blood away and leaving it clean once more.

“Why?” he choked out, and Voldemort paused in his task of licking the rest of his fingers clean.  Each time he had gotten a taste of Harry’s blood, he had thrown his head back in ecstasy, as if the taste of Harry’s blood was something as wonderful as the finest dining.  “Why come back just to kill me? You’re a monster, and killing me won’t reward you the throne.”

“I don’t want the throne,” said Voldemort, sounding disgusted.  “I want  _ your _ blood.”

“But what can I do against you?” he pressed on, and something in him felt desperate to know.  Why was this man haunting his nightmares? Why had this man killed him, killed his family, and seemed hellbent on ruining his life again?  He might be the missing prince, but Sirius  _ hadn’t _ acknowledged him, and that meant his lineage was as good as dead.  Why chase him even before then?

“Nothing,” said Voldemort, and even though the word should have rang true with its conviction, there was a note of doubt in there.  And Harry latched onto it in wonder, because what  _ could _ he do?  He was held down by a force he did not understand, and the only hope of his rescue was in a man that had already betrayed him.

“But I suppose I can tell you,” continued Voldemort, “It’ll be something to distract you.”

Before he could question Voldemort’s words, pain wracked his entire body.  The force that had been so content to simply hold him down was now tearing him apart.  It felt like a whirlwind, little cuts appearing on his bare skin underneath his shirt that was now in tatters.  They stung, but didn’t bleed, and Harry only had a second to wonder why until Voldemort was reaching out once again, his long fingernails slicing deep and true into his chest until blood dripped down and stained his pants.

He had never felt pain like this before; he had gotten broken bones back in the orphanage, and perhaps maybe he had felt something akin to this in his nightmares, but  _ never _ in reality.

Voldemort had looked calm before; now his face was full of true happiness, the lipless mouth stretched into what looked like a truly gruesome mockery of a smile.

And all the while, words dropped out of the monster’s mouth.

“You, my dear Hadrian, are the subject of a prophecy born centuries ago.  You are to have the means to kill a truly powerful immortal being, provided you were left to grow unchecked.  But I decided not to tempt fate, and hunt you down myself…”

There was no question who the immortal being was; the rage that burned in those red eyes were enough of a confirmation.

“Your family was a mere casualty of your doomed fate; in fact, I would dare say their deaths are on your hands, Hadrian.”

He wanted to rebuke Voldemort’s cruel words, but his mouth was already drawn open in what felt like an endless scream without sound, more and more of his blood leaving his body as Voldemort relentlessly tore him open with only his fingernails.

The wounds left behind burned, leaving Harry only enough brainpower to listen to Voldemort and nothing else.  It was hard to breathe past the pain, past the panic that this might be his last day alive...that he may die here, alone, with no one the wiser and only a monster to know his last moments.

“The plan was perfect,” continued Voldemort, “If only Tom hadn’t interfered.” 

Past the burning pain, Harry latched onto that thought, his eyes widening as Voldemort tore another gash into his bleeding chest.  He blinked through blurry tears, and through them, Voldemort’s smile looked vicious.

“Your precious Tom, his connection to me goes far deeper than you could ever imagine...not only has he orchestrated your deaths for me, he is a part of me.”

In mere seconds, the burning pain seemed to abate.  But there was a rushing in Harry’s ears as he worked to understand Voldemort’s words.  Tom had killed him…and he was Voldemort, himself. All this time, Tom had been leading him to his death.

A cooling effect spread across his chest, bringing relief to him as silence reigned.  Long, cold fingers gripped his chin roughly, jerking his head upward to stare into red, sunken eyes.

The vicious smile was still there, even more grotesque close-up.

“It hurts you,” said Voldemort, and he seemed to delight in this fact. 

“He saved me,” protested Harry, and Voldemort laughed.

“‘Saved’? You think you’re safe?”

“Well, I bloody well thought I was until today! A little poor and thin but generally safe but no today I find out I’m a Russian prince that’s been reincarnated and you keep killing me like a wanker!”

Voldemort blinked at that response. “How uncouth,” he said, “But you would have never been safe with him. Your touch awakened me and broke the curse that Severus had placed on me, he came the closest to killing me and I would have remained in that state if you had not met my counterpart… 

“He doomed you, Harry Potter. He gave you a decade’s worth of false security and, just as you were nearly free, he took it all away again.”

“Why not just kill me when I was an infant? I remember being sick and you were brought in to help.” If he just kept talking, maybe Snape or someone would come. 

“Ah, that of course was a simple case of greed on my part. Wandering Europe is not the most comfortable existence, nor the most profitable, so it was quite easy to heal you, while also continually making sure you relapsed with a minor curse upon your being. Your parents were so pleased with me for curing you. I was richer than Solomon for a time, but soon your parents began to grow wary of me, of the experiments that I was conducting. I knew time was drawing short and I attempted to lead you away, but it all came to a head that night.”

Harry watched as Voldemort’s expression twisted into a sneer.

“My forces were ready and waiting to strike, but then,  _ Tom _ happened. He helped you get away instead of letting you and your fool of a godfather perish in the fire.” 

“Why did Tom help me?”

“You cannot fathom his reasoning? Are you truly that simple-minded?

“He resents me. The two of us are so truly alike, but I did not predict that he would resent being under my command. I should have seen that this would be the likely outcome to having a piece of myself assisting me for centuries, perhaps I did subconsciously and that is why I brought Severus on as an apprentice. 

“Do not think that Tom did anything for you out of concern for  _ your  _ wellbeing. It was merely to strike back at me and allow himself some freedom while I was held prisoner by Severus’ curse.”

“What are you going to do to Tom?”

“Kill him, reabsorb him, shove him in a box and let him sit for a century while I remold his mind to my desire, I will see where the night takes me, but first, I’ll start with you, and then move on to Tom and dear, dear Severus. Oh, the things I have planned for  _ him _ . Did you know he was in love with your mother? I Imagine not. I remember looking into his heart, into his very soul and seeing his true heart’s desire. Care to guess what it was? 

“He wanted you and your father dead. He would have gladly fucked your mother right on top of your father’s body. A sick man, truly. I guess after the fire he probably just had to settle with fucking her corpse.” 

Harry had never felt so much anger than he had ever felt in this very moment.  He lunged forward, twisting out of Voldemort’s now lack grasp to bring up his hands to close around Voldemort’s unnaturally thin neck.

Voldemort didn’t make any attempt to escape, instead, the monster stared at him, his expression amused, but not scared.

“You’re a monster,” he seethed, and that got a reaction out of Voldemort.  But not the one Harry had intended; instead, the monster threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the cave.

When the laughter finally ended, Voldemort’s red eyes bore into his.  “Do it,” he goaded. “Choke me.”

 

For a split second, Harry  _ wanted _ to.  Voldemort’s words echoed through his mind; his cold, calculating words about how he had killed his parents still filled his body with rage.  But he wasn’t a killer…

“You can’t,” said Voldemort, and Harry shivered as he heard the note of disappointment in it.  “You don’t have the spine for it.”

He wasn’t given time to think of a response. The magic was back, bearing down on him and freezing him in place.

“Even when you are facing certain death, you cannot bring yourself to kill me.  You are weak.”

The proclamation did not come alone.  Voldemort had frozen him in place, and Harry’s hands were still closed around his neck.  But Voldemort didn’t seem inclined to move Harry’s hands away; instead, the monster’s own hands were now moving to brush against Harry’s own neck.

Pure fear filled him once again.  

Slowly, each finger brushed against the side of his neck, slow enough that Harry had enough time to know what was coming and dread it.

Voldemort’s hands were now enclosed around Harry’s neck, but unlike Harry, Voldemort had no qualms.  The pressure was already increasing to the point where Voldemort’s bony fingers were leaving bold imprints on his neck, and Harry was starting to have trouble breathing.

When he felt as if he was going to pass out, the pressure abated, leaving him reeling.  The magic that was holding him suddenly disappeared, and he fell forward, straight into the monster’s arms as he struggled to regain air.

Inconceivably, Voldemort’s arms came up around him, a comforting cage despite who the arms belonged to.  He coughed, his airways bruised and hurting, and he was having hard enough time trying to get his breathing under control that he didn’t realize what was happening at first.

The cold air of the cave was suddenly biting into the back of his skin; his shirt was cut cleanly into two, the cut was in the same path Voldemort’s pointer finger had traveled up his back just a mere second earlier.  Although the shirt had been bloody and basically rags at this point, it had still been some sort of protection against the monster.

There was a minute where Harry didn’t dare breathe, didn’t dare think about the last time he was naked in front of someone else; it was so unthinkable, that he couldn’t dare imagine that this was happening, that this was real life, that Voldemort was undressing him the same way Tom had just a day ago…

Voldemort shifted, and then the shirt fell from his body, cut clean into two.  Harry shivered against his will as the air seemed to get even colder and he unconsciously moved even closer to Voldemort, even though the monster’s skin was barely warmer than the coldness of the air.

Voldemort’s eyes roamed Harry’s unmarred chest, healed unnaturally from the brutal assault Voldemort had put it under.  Slowly, his hand rose, until his fingers brushed against Harry’s nipple, drawing a shuttered breath from Harry.

He didn’t move; Voldemort knew how to freeze him and Harry knew if he struggled Voldemort wouldn’t hesitate to do so once again.  If he could just wait for the right moment, he could surprise Voldemort and  _ run _ .

Even though he knew he had no chance, Harry still had to hold onto hope.  Tom had betrayed Voldemort once before, and even though Harry had no idea what he was supposed to feel about Tom, he still wished that Tom would come save him…

After all, what Voldemort had planned for him looked like a fate worse than death, and Tom was the only one Harry could rely on—the only one that might know where he had gone, unless Snape suspected...

That hope gave him the strength to stay still, even when all he wanted to do was run.

There was satisfaction in Voldemort’s eyes, almost as if the monster knew exactly what Harry was thinking.  

“You won’t struggle, will you?” He asked, almost as if he didn’t expect an answer.  “You know how pointless it is,” continued Voldemort, “You know your life is already forfeit…”

Roughly, Voldemort pulled Harry forward, his thin lips suddenly claiming Harry’s lips for their own.  They were chapped and rough, and Harry cried out in pain as Voldemort continued to  _ devour  _ him, his long, tongue, shorter than his nightmares, but long enough to map every corner of his mouth took ownership of him, and violated him more intimately than anyone had ever done so before.  

It seemed to go on forever, and Harry whimpered into the rough treatment as his lungs burned with the need to breathe.  When Voldemort drew away, Harry let out a loud gasp, trying to move away but unsuccessful because of the tight grip Voldemort had on him, holding him close enough that Harry could feel every bone of the monster against him.

He was shaking, trembling so hard from fear that it was hard to think about anything else but Voldemort’s proximity to him.  Voldemort’s hand was moving lower, toward his belt, and he knew there was no stopping him now…

He closed his eyes, trying to think about anything but the monster in front of him.  Unbidden, Tom’s smirking face came to mind...the moment in which Tom had declared himself to be spontaneous, as if a crystal phial full of lubricated liquid was something he deemed acceptable to carry around everyday.

He knew he wouldn’t be treated so tenderly by Voldemort; he was going to be taken roughly, a punishment for being who he was.  Voldemort wasn’t going to show mercy to him…

But Voldemort didn’t seem inclined to ask him to open his eyes; instead, seemed to delight in the way Harry was shaking hard in his embrace.

“Are you thinking of someone else?” Voldemort whispered into his ear in a poor imitation of a lover’s words.  

He didn’t dare respond, but his lack of answer seemed to spur Voldemort on.  

His trousers fell in seconds, and then there was a blunt pressure at his arsehole.  He froze, his muscles tensing up in protest, and there was a harsh laughter emitting from Voldemort.

Magic had to ease the way, because Voldemort slid all the way into him without his arsehole tearing, even as pain from being entered so harshly filled him.  It was a burning pain, but not one that felt permanent, and his eyes flew open in the suddenness. 

Unlike Tom, Voldemort was not kind enough to wait for him to get used to the thickness filling him.  And also unlike Tom, Voldemort was  _ huge _ , almost unnaturally so, to the point in which it felt as if he was being torn open.  And when he glanced down, he could see the bulge in his stomach from where Voldemort was inside of him, the bulge increasing and decreasing in size as Voldemort bent him into two and rammed hard into him, not seeming to care as harsh screams were torn from Harry. 

It seemed as if Voldemort was intent on not letting Harry think of anyone else, filling his thoughts with the feeling of being entered so fully and harshly.  And it worked, because Harry could think of nothing else as he was taken so cruelly, his only thought on the monster behind him, taking his pleasure from Harry’s body against his will.

The only thing keeping him going was the thought that this was meant to all be over soon. Voldemort was sure to finish at the pace he was going, and after that, he would at least no longer be awake to feel pain…

Almost as if Voldemort had heard his thoughts, the monster’s pace ground to a stop, until Voldemort was holding him upright and still.  Harry didn’t dare ask why, although Voldemort didn’t give him much of a window to do so. He was already starting to move, and instead of the insance pace Voldemort had set earlier, Voldemort was now thrusting in hard and  _ slow _ , each thrust now taking more than ten seconds and thrusting in deep enough to hit his prostate hard.  Each thrust elicited a gasp from Harry as the sensations got the better of him, and he whined against his will, one of his hands going to claw at the hand that was holding him upright.

Almost as soon as he scratched Voldemort, Voldemort drew out, leaving him with the feeling of being empty, a feeling that he abhorred as soon as he felt it.  He should be rejoicing that Voldemort was out of him, not want it again...but his body betrayed him, and he closed his eyes in despair.

He was being laid down on the ground, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to open his eyes again.  He just wanted this all to be over.

Then his eyes flew open in shock, because against all reasoning, Voldemort was not roughly sliding back in.  No, there was a hand on  _ him _ , and it was gentle, and obviously meant to please.  The sense of defeat came back even stronger now, because it shouldn’t be happening, but it was, and it  _ felt  _ good, and Harry hated himself a little bit more for even thinking it did.

He wasn’t even able to hide it and a chuckle sounded through the air, rough and husky and amused, and Harry screwed his eyes even tighter shut, hoping the pressure from doing so would stop him from crying, because this?  Being taken was one thing, but  _ liking _ it…that should be something he had control over....

But it seemed like Voldemort wasn’t content with only his body, he also wanted his mind, because Voldemort seemed determined for Harry to like it.  There was no more rough entering, and instead, Voldemort’s hand continued to move up and down expertly, seeming to find the direct pressure points to make his toes curl.

And even though Harry kept telling himself to ignore it, ignore his body and just float away, he couldn’t, and eventually, it got too much.  Because he was dead, anyway, why not enjoy it? It wasn’t as if Voldemort was going to let him go after taking him, because what else was this but another way to torture him?

He had already been killed, brought back to life and then tortured endlessly until blood was drawn - countless amounts of it.  What more was taking his body  _ this _ way?  And it least it didn’t hurt as badly as it did before, when he was held prone and cut by something he couldn’t see…

So he gave in because it seemed like Voldemort was content to keep doing so until he did, and it was easier to give in…

Especially when it felt this good.

It wasn’t long before Voldemort’s ministrations finally finished their goal.  They seemed to know exactly where to press, and as soon as one sharper fingernail grazed the underside of his cock, he was going boneless, finishing and leaving him in a haze.

That seemed to be what Voldemort was waiting for all along, because as soon as he went slack, Voldemort hefted him up, planting himself in between Harry’s legs and sliding straight in.  Harry couldn’t stop himself from letting out a loud whimper, the sensations of finishing hard and then being taken roughly seconds after was too much for someone as inexperienced as him.

This time, Voldemort seemed even more ruthless.  Despite how gentle his hand had been on Harry, Voldemort’s hips moved relentlessly, driving in and out without regard to the absolutely pathetic sounds leaving Harry’s mouth.  He couldn’t hold them back, not when it felt like Voldemort was breaking him straight in half, and he didn’t even have Voldemort’s hand to distract him. Voldemort had gripped him tight on the hips to drive in even more deeply, and Harry was sure he was going to have bruises; though it wasn’t as if bruises mattered because he doubted Voldemort would let just anyone see his dead body.

And then Voldemort was finishing into him with a loud grunt, the warmth spreading into him and drawing shivers. 

This was it.

It was over.

He still hadn’t opened his eyes, and he was thankful for it, not wanting to see the triumph on Voldemort’s face as the monster withdrew from him.  He could still  _ feel _ Voldemort inside of him, the cum still warm and searing within him even as Voldemort’s footsteps seemed to move away.  He didn’t need to see Voldemort to know that the monster was ecstatic he had finally broken him, because he could hear the laughter echoing through the cave.

But it was growing fainter…

Perhaps Voldemort was intending to leave him here.  Perhaps this was the moment he had been waiting for; he might be weak right now, but he was a fighter.  He could run, as long as he could muster up the strength to stand.

It would be hard; his limbs felt like jelly and when he shifted just the tiny bit, he could feel the cum Voldemort had left behind sloshing around, and he knew gravity would make it fall.

But this might be his only chance.

Voldemort’s laughter faded away.  Harry’s eyes flew open, and then he heard it.

A new set of footsteps.

It couldn’t - it wasn’t possible.

“Tom,” and Harry flinched, the voice was closer than he had expected, “How nice of you to finally join us.”

Harry couldn’t help shifting a bit, enough so he could see into the darkness.  He couldn’t see Voldemort, but he could make out Tom’s face.

It was etched in shock, even horror.  Their eyes met for a split second, and then Tom’s eyes were on Voldemort.

His fists were clenched tight.  

Harry took comfort in the sight, knowing then that at least Tom still cared for him...even if Harry couldn’t completely trust him.

And then he remembered what he looked like.  His front splattered in his own cum, hastily healed cuts crisscrossing his chest, and his bottom completely bare, a thin sliver of obviously Voldemort’s cum leaving his wrecked arsehole.

He flushed hard, remembering the last time Tom had seen him so completely bare, and then was filled with intense want of those simpler times.

“What have you done?” asked Tom.  He wasn’t able to disguise the loathing in his voice, and it seemed as if Voldemort had caught onto it.

“What have  _ I _ done?”  Voldemort sounded offended, and Harry hastily looked around for the monster, and found him a few seconds later, seated casually on the throne he had first seen Voldemort in.  He was dressed again, and looked as if he hadn’t been just fucking Harry hard minutes ago. “No, the question is what have  _ you _ done, my disobedient  _ servant _ .”  There was malice dripping from every word, and Tom’s face went blank as Voldemort’s voice got even more dangerous.

“You  _ saved _ him.  You were supposed to kill him and the Romanovs, but for some reason, he lived.”

“Perhaps I was sick of you always winning.”  Tom’s voice was as curt as Voldemort’s.

“Ah.”  The one word exhale was enough to get Harry’s defenses up.  He had spent enough time in fear of Voldemort, even that was the sign of danger.  “You have feelings for the boy. You want to save him again.”

There was a long silence, and then Tom was smiling.  “Hardly.” Tom sounded amused now, even as that one word crushed the growing hope within Harry, leaving only despair to replace it.  “You can have him. After all, I had him first.”

Voldemort wasn’t able to conceal the rage that crossed his face, the anger distorting it into something truly grotesque.  This was news to him, news that Voldemort obviously did not like.

But he recovered soon enough.

“Have him again.”  The words were an order, and Tom stiffened at it, unable to hide the shock in his expression.  This was obviously something he hadn’t expected. “My sloppy seconds should suffice for you; after all, you are nothing but my pawn, correct?”

Tom was on his knees in mere seconds, and although Harry couldn’t see it, he knew something was pushing him down into the submissive position.  Tom would never be in it otherwise, even if Voldemort was his superior.

“Yes, my Lord,” ground out Tom, and then Tom was straightening up, the pressure from Voldemort gone.

It took Harry an uncomfortably long second to realize what this meant for him, so engrossed he was in the battle between the two.  He was moving as soon as he did, regardless of how weak his limbs were, he had to get away.

But he missed his only chance, because Voldemort’s attention was once again on him.  Though in truth, he doubted it had ever left…

Magic was freezing him in place.  He couldn’t move anything from the neck down, and he was frozen in the position he had been trying to run from; he was on all fours and he was utterly defenseless.

Even now, even with his body frozen, the trail of Voldemort’s cum was still moving...dripping down and reminding him again of how he had no chance of escape.

He couldn’t even watch as Tom approached, and it was only the warning of footsteps getting louder that stopped him from flinching as Tom rested a hand on his hip.

There were no greetings.  No apologies for punching Tom; no, Harry didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare breathe as Tom’s fingers entered him roughly, and it was only Harry biting down hard on his lower lip that stopped him from crying out as Tom crooked his fingers and then drew out roughly. 

He was trying to get all of the monster’s evidence out of him.

The  _ bastards _ .  He was just a toy to them.  

Voldemort’s tongue clicked.  The silence in the cave was so oppressive, that even though the sound was soft, it carried.

Tom made an annoyed sound, and then without any warning, something bigger, something  _ thicker _ was entering him.

This time, Harry couldn’t stop the gasp from leaving him, and he wanted so desperately to throw a hand back as a sign of protest.  But he couldn’t; he was still frozen and there was nothing he could do to escape.

All he could do hang his head and whimper pathetically as Tom started to move slowly.  He closed his eyes, trying his best not to think about what was happening.

It seemed to go on forever.  Unlike Voldemort, Tom didn’t even seem affected.  There were no sounds coming from behind him, just a slow, methodical thrusting that never ceased its movement.  And it shouldn’t make Harry feel anything, but it  _ did _ , because this wasn’t Voldemort behind him, it wasn’t a monster, it was Tom.

Tom had taken his first time.  And maybe to Voldemort, Tom had said Harry didn’t matter.  But that didn’t mean Tom didn’t matter to him. And that simple distinction was enough to explain the racing in his heart and the shortness of his breath, and he wanted Tom to care for him again, to be back in those simpler times. 

When he was sure all he wanted in life was to stay with Tom.

His vision was getting blurry.  Tears started to run down his cheeks as Tom continued to fuck him, and he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of breaking him.

But he wanted this to be over.

Against his will, a soft, “Please,” escaped his mouth.  

Tom stilled immediately.  For a few seconds, Tom didn’t move, his cock hard and pulsing in Harry’s wrecked arsehole.  

Then, between one short breath and the next, Tom was fucking into him  _ hard _ , each thrust brutal and more unforgiving than the last.  And it shouldn’t make him smile, but it did, because this meant that Tom was listening to him, that Tom wanted this to be over just as much as he did.

He tried to urge Tom along, letting the sounds that Tom had shown appreciation for before fall from his mouth, no matter how degrading and wanton he sounded.  He tried to enjoy it, and when Tom reached around him to grab at his frozen cock, he let out a loud moan, unfaked. It felt  _ good _ to have Tom’s hand on him, and he wanted to buck wildly back, to get more of that delicious cock into him, but he couldn’t - he was still frozen.  But he hoped his moans were enough of a sign to Tom that he was enjoying it, enough so that Tom could finish and they could be done with it.

And in the midst of all that, Harry lost track of why he was showing his enjoyment so much and actually started to  _ enjoy _ it.  Tom was an expert, and he knew exactly how to work Harry into a frenzy, and he took advantage of it.  Soon, Harry’s eyes were rolling back in intense pleasure as Tom’s hand increased in its pace, and he curled his toes hard as he finished once again all over Tom’s hand.

For a minute, Harry tried his best to regain his breath.  He wasn’t - he hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but he had been silly not to.  It was Tom, after all, and Tom knew his body well enough that Harry had forgotten that Voldemort was still there, and still watching.

Then he realized Tom was still hard within him.  Tom hadn’t finished - and this was the point in which he realized something must be wrong.  Back then, Tom had never had any trouble finishing, and he definitely shouldn’t be having any now, bareback and the pace he had set should have been enough…

Sure enough, when he lifted his head, Voldemort was still watching them, and this time, he wore a smug smirk, visible even far away as he was.

He knew Tom was looking as well, because Voldemort’s smile only grew.  When Tom made to move out, Voldemort raised a hand, and Tom’s breath hitched.

“Having trouble, Tom?” asked the monster, and Harry watched in horror as Voldemort stood, intent on making his way over to them.  He had thought this was over - that Voldemort would be content to watch.

But obviously, he had been wrong.

Tom was grinding his teeth behind him, and it sounded like it physically hurt him to talk.  “He’s done.”

“But you aren’t,” said Voldemort, and the concern in his voice was laughable.  “I guess you really  _ don’t _ care for the boy if you can’t even come from his arse.  Was it not to your liking? Too open?”

Tom didn’t reply, but Voldemort’s smirk got even more smug.  “Perhaps I should show the boy that it isn’t him, it’s  _ you _ .”

Voldemort was suddenly  _ there _ , in between one blink and the next, and there was something poking him in the cheek.

Harry closed his eyes in defeat, knowing immediately what Voldemort wanted.  Hadn’t this been enough? How much further would Voldemort play with him until he tired of him?

He rather be dead…

Sharp pain erupted in his right cheek.  Harry didn’t dare open his eyes, and instead, resigned, opened his mouth.  

That was enough for Voldemort.

His open mouth was enough invitation for Voldemort to do what he wanted.  His head was grabbed roughly with two hands and then he was being pulled harshly down onto Voldemort’s  cock.

He immediately gagged, the entry too rough and sudden for it to be comfortable, and he whimpered around the thick cock in his mouth.  He wasn’t given any time to get used to it, because Voldemort was moving his head back and forth, forcing his way into Harry’s mouth.

It wasn’t a blowjob.  Harry wasn’t expected to move on his own at all; in fact, he still couldn’t move because Voldemort still had him frozen.  So Voldemort took him exactly as he wanted him; he was just a hole for Voldemort to use, and Voldemort didn’t a spare a single thought to his comfort.

Luckily, it was over fast; unlike how long time seemed to have felt when Tom was the one fucking him, this only felt like a few minutes until Voldemort was drawing out.

His throat was sore, and Harry was blearily blinking his eyes open at the sudden withdrawal when something sticky hit him.

Horror and disgust filled him all at once and he tried his best to turn his head away.  It didn’t do much, the cum was copious and started to drip down his cheeks as soon as they landed.

He snarled, about to let his displeasure be known when Voldemort roughly shoved his cock back in.  The smell and taste of the monster’s cum made his nostrils flare and it was  _ disgusting. _

But he didn’t have time to dwell on that, because Voldemort was once again face-fucking him.  And this time, Tom wasn’t still; at a glance from Voldemort, Tom started moving again. This time, he seemed angry, his hips moving forward in quick, annoyed thrusts and not really doing much for Harry.

Not that he needed to, not when he was sore from getting fucked three times in a row now, not when Voldemort was currently commanding all his attention with his dick in his mouth.

The end seemed nowhere in sight.  It seemed as if Voldemort was only intending to stop once Tom had finished, but it also seemed like Voldemort had done something so Tom could  _ never _ finish.

Which left him here.  Dread filled him. Was this Voldemort’s master plan?  Was he to be fucked to death this iteration?

Voldemort came once more, this time, thrusting in so deep that Harry couldn’t even gag.  There was no possibility of spitting it out, so he swallowed, tears at the corner of his eyes as it went down.

And then Tom was the one in his mouth, and Voldemort took his arse.

It seemed as if it would never end.  Voldemort took his time with it, coating him countless times with his seed, and finishing deep within him until Harry felt bloated with it.  It had to be magic, and it was  _ petty _ of them to use him for their fight.  

It was when Tom was in him once again that he knew he had to do something.  Voldemort had taken a step back, seemingly content to watch as he held his own cock in his hand.

He started to  _ beg _ , as prettily as he could even as he inwardly cringed at the idea of begging anything from them.  But at least he was only begging Tom, not the monster.

Voldemort’s eyes flashed at that, and then he was being unfrozen.  The shock of suddenly being able to move made his arms give out and he fell, Tom sliding out at the motion and drawing a keening noise from Harry.

It was so sudden that he felt  _ empty _ and as he did, he also felt the soreness of being fucked for hours.

“Do you need help?” asked Voldemort, sounding innocent, but Harry knew he was anything but.  The monster walked forward and Tom stood still, unsure of what to do. Harry twisted, just in time to watch Voldemort reach downward, taking Tom’s cock into his hand.

He stared, unable to tear his eyes away.

Tom looked defeated, his hand already resting on top of Voldemort’s hand as if he was going to rip it off him.  But he didn’t dare, and his hand shook in barely restrained anger.

“Look at him,” crooned Voldemort in a low voice.  “Something must be wrong with him if you can’t finish.  Maybe you prefer me…”

Tom bit his mouth hard, and this was obviously a power play.  There was no other reason for Voldemort to do so. But Tom knew better than to argue against Voldemort, and so he stayed quiet, the defeat easy to see in his slumped shoulders.

Voldemort seemed to know exactly where to press.  Harry wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Voldemort’s hand was pale, and the fingers almost unnaturally long as they wrapped around the base of Tom’s dick.  He was moving his hand in slow strokes, twisting it and increasing the pace until Tom couldn’t stay quiet.

Against Tom’s will and past his bitten lips, a sound escaped.  A moan. Quiet, but Voldemort heard it, his mouth stretching into a wide smile.

He didn’t pause to taunt Tom, instead increasing his pace until Tom was shaking in his hold, his knuckles white as they bore down on Voldemort’s wrist.  But his strength held no power here and it wouldn’t be long before Voldemort won.

And then Voldemort stopped.  Tom let out a harsh gasp, his breath leaving in pants.  

“Do you want me to continue?”  asked Voldemort.

Tom stared at Voldemort with a look of disbelief.  Then he glanced back down to where Voldemort was gripping his dick.  Instead of the soft grip he had before, this time, Voldemort was slowly closing his hand, drawing a sound of pain from Tom.

“Please,” said Tom, bowing his head, and that was all Voldemort was waiting for.

With a cry, Tom finally finished after hours of being stimulated far beyond his comfort point.

Harry flinched as the seed landed on him, a sound of protest being torn from his lips as he was coated.  

He was weak, fucked hard into submission, and now Tom had finally finished, completely beaten by Voldemort.

Seconds passed.  Voldemort withdrew his hand, cleaning his hand on Tom’s thigh.  Tom didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look up from where he was staring at the floor with all his concentration.  

Harry’s heart sank.

There was no questioning it now.  Voldemort had humiliated Harry and Tom and now had no more use of them.

But Harry couldn’t muster up any protest.  He just wanted this to be over…

“You had him first,” said Voldemort, and there was glee in his voice.  “And you can be his last for this life…”

Tom didn’t move.

Voldemort waited, but when Tom seemed to be unresponsive, he turned his red-eyed gaze to Harry.  “Looks like it’s my turn, then.”

He raised his hand.

Harry didn’t know what he did, but suddenly, unbelievable pain wracked his body.  Voldemort was chanting, the words in a different language, and then almost as soon as the pain had come, it disappeared.

“You’ll waste away in a day,” said Voldemort.  He didn’t seem inclined to help Harry up, looking down on him with a smile.

Harry didn’t move, the fight gone from him at the notion of what Voldemort had done.  Magic he couldn’t hope to understand was going to be the end of him. He had been hoping for a quick death, but Voldemort would never be so kind.

He should had known.

Taking his body against his will multiple times until he was to faint of exhaustion wasn’t enough torture for Voldemort.

“We’ll leave you here,” said Voldemort, when Harry didn't respond.  Harry didn’t look up, frustrated tears welling in his eyes as he heard footsteps echo away.

Harry was left there, with no more strength in his body, covered in the evidence of Voldemort’s fun with him, and no hope of a future.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter was written by the most divine, the most lovely, the most badass cutie patootie out there whitedandelions with a bit in spots by renderedreversed, nanimok, and darklordtomarry. 
> 
> The sweetest and adorable and talented peixe did the artwork for this chapter.


	7. Chapter 6: Agony in Defeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter was written by nanimok, renderedreversed and darklordtomarry (just a small amount those two did the rest they're amazing im going to marry them they just don't know it yet)

 

Sirius had never been so frightened in his entire life.

Not when his mother had first raised her hand against him, struck him while his father turned his cheek and looked away. Not when the Winter Palace was attacked and he'd barely escaped with his life. Not when he thought he'd lost Harry forever, lost him to the sea and the storm, lost him to Fate and Destiny and Death and _himself_ , his own negligence, when the pot he'd nestled his most priceless treasure in had disappeared for good.

No, this was even worse, because Sirius knew Harry was alive, had seen him and held him and spoken to him just prior after seventeen straight years of anguished guilt. And again it was Voldemort, again it was Fate, again it was _his fault his negligence his selfish, stupid blindness_ that was to blame.

Harry was out there being hunted like a newborn faun in a deserted prairie, and Sirius had not seen it until it was too late.

Beside him, he heard the panting breaths of both Snape and Remus as they kept pace with him. They were all old men now, Sirius thought a little hysterically, but frightened old men. Old men who knew what was out there, knew that it would come back one day, that it wasn't a matter of _if_ but _when_.

They were in rather good shape, for old men. But good enough to take on Voldemort? Sirius doubted it. Not when he was twenty-seven, and certainly not now when he was _thirty_ -seven. But he also knew he would die trying, if that devil _dared_ to lay a hand on his godson—

"This way," Snape said. Sirius didn't even think about snapping at him. Old grudges, past enmities—they were all nothing when compared to his godson's life.

Remus squeezed his shoulder. "We'll find him," he said, "Sirius, we'll find him."

Snape lead them into a graveyard. Sirius' heart dropped like a boulder. For Voldemort, who practically walked among the dead like its master, to be here—and for Harry to also be here—

It meant nothing good, that was for sure.

"May James and Lily be watching over him," Sirius muttered under his breath. Remus still caught it, shooting him a pained look.

"Hurry," Snape said. For better or for worse, he didn't offer any additional information. Sirius wasn't sure whether he wanted it or not, anyway.

Snape lead them through the graveyard without pausing once. There were creases in his forehead, deep grooves Sirius was sure that were mirrored on his own face. That, beside the unyielding pace they took, told Sirius that they had yet to arrive at their destination, and since there was nothing past this graveyard, there was only one place left they could be going:

The catacombs.

A chill ran down his spine. Sirius cursed and ran faster, leaving Remus and passing even Snape.

"Idiot!" Snape yelled after him, "You don't even know where you're going! You'll get lost before you're halfway close to finding them!"

"Hurry up, then!" Sirius snapped. "My _godson_ is—is _down there_! With _him_! He could be—"

Remus cut him off. "Less talking, more running!"

It was not long before they reached the entrance to the catacombs, and descended.

Here, Snape was more cautious. He snapped his fingers and conjured a flame, sending orbs of will-o-wisps to travel further down the passage to light their way. It was a path of bones and skulls, almost mockingly arranged in patterned, intricate rows done by artists and sculptors who saw death as the final frontier of beauty.

Perhaps it was meant to frighten thieves and beggars, or inspire admiration from the loftier-minded, but Sirius, whose life death had played an intimate role in, who had his friends and family wrested away from him in an act of cold, traitorous blood, found anger instead of awe.

This place was perfectly suited to Voldemort’s tastes.

He ran faster.

At some point in their mad dash, the floor of the catacombs grew damp and the air musty. It was still silent, save for their footsteps, but it was that exact silence that fed the unease festering in their chests. They had been running for so long—how much farther did they have to go? And how deep, Sirius wondered, aching in more than just physical exertion, how deep had Voldemort dragged his godson?

And if—and if they were close, why hadn't they _heard anything_ yet?

"Snape," Sirius rasped, unable to bear it any longer, "Snape—how far do we have to—"

Snape stopped.

Sirius nearly fell face first, had it not been for Snape's arm extending to stop them. He felt Remus collide with his back.

"Hey, what gives—"

"Shut up," Snape said. His arm was trembling. "Shut up, Black. Don't..."

No one spoke. And then, in those few agonizing, tortuous breaths of air, Sirius heard it.

Someone was crying.

* * *

For Harry, consciousness came in stages.

First, there was an echo of a dream—something he couldn't quite grasp, a surreal moment where he could've sworn he'd seen Snape again, standing beside Sirius and Remus. They'd sat him up with gentle hands and he'd shuddered, both in pain and fear and gratefulness—home, he'd get to go home, he remembered thinking.

The nightmare was finally over.

Then came a vague awareness of his surroundings. The chill of the catacombs was gone, as was the damp stink of sewage and must of death. Instead, he was lying on something soft—a mattress, maybe, but it could've been just as well a cloud for all that Harry could feel it.

In the distance, he thought he heard a bird's song, a charm made of quick staccato beats and a curious, wanting lilt. It made him think of tumbling down the rolling hills near the orphanage and pulling at the grass strands on his way down, grinning as he sat up with stains on his pants and fistfuls of dirt and greenery.

In that moment, he wasn't thinking about how the matrons would scold him, or how hard the stains would be to get out of his clothes. It was him, the wind, the sky and the earth—freedom on his tongue and the silly blood of his youth to make use of it.

Later, much later, he'd met Tom, and his future was no longer dreams of finding buried treasure or fantastical displays of heroism. No, it was softer—just as hopeful, but more real: sailing to America, making something of himself, making something of _themselves_ —together.

But oh, how things had spiraled after that...

Harry woke fully then; he opened his eyes, feeling like sleep had never touched them at all. When he sat up, he realized for the first time where he was: his old room at the orphanage, just as bare, and just as home.

His cot squeaked as he stood up.

"Awake?"

Harry spun around. There, in the doorway, was none other than Tom. For a moment, he was ecstatic to see him—the high still lingering from his good dream—but then he remembered, he recalled—Voldemort, there was Voldemort, in the catacombs, and Tom had—

Tom was—

"Harry," Tom said, voice aching like his heart, "Harry, forgive me. I've—I've wronged you irreparably—I'm so, so sorry, love—"

"What?" Harry whispered. "T-Tom? What are you—"

Tom dropped to his knees. The lighting hit his face in a curious way, or was it Harry himself who saw him differently? He didn't know, but he was suddenly aware of how blue Tom's eyes were—not red, the farthest from red—and how human, how weak he looked.

Proud, handsome Tom—on his knees, begging for Harry to forgive him.

"Tom," Harry rasped, and fell to his knees as well. He didn't know who embraced who, but soon enough, he was being cradled in Tom's arms as Tom whispered their old promises to him.

"We'll go," he said, "We'll run away, and he'll never find us again."

“Sirius,” Harry said. “I can’t…leave. I just found him. And Snape.”

“They can come,” Tom said. “Or they can stay, and we’ll visit them. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you and I leave, and start anew. Together.”

Harry closed his eyes and buried his face in Tom's shoulder. He was warm—soft, fleshy, _human—_ not stone, not bone, not emaciated, skeletal fingers—

"Yes," Harry said. "Yes, let's go."

—

Exhaling a shaky breath, Snape lifted his hand from where it touched Harry’s cold, cold face.

“There,” Snape said, a million tonnes heavier. “It’s done. He’s locked in his own mind. He won’t feel anymore pain.”

Sirius sobbed, cradling Harry’s head in his arms. “There’s nothing else you can do?” he asked, distraught.

“No.” Snape thinned his lips. “He’s advanced to the later stages of the curse. There’s nothing else we can do.”

“Bloody hell, Severus. You’re the best chance we have!”

“I am aware of that,” Snape snapped. “And you have no idea the extent of his degeneration. This wasting curse is on a scale you wouldn’t be able to imagine—”

“There must be _something_ you can do,” Sirius said, his whole body shaking. “You studied under him _._ You left Lily for him, for god’s sakes! All those years being a filthy warlock and all of it _useless_ ! How could not have learnt _anything_ —”

“Sirius,” Remus said, one hand squeezing Sirius’ shoulder.

Stony silence and heavy breathing. Then, a whisper.

“You think I don’t know that?” Snape said. “I would move hell itself to stop this curse—to _save_ Lily’s son—but Voldemort is the most powerful man I’ve ever encountered and all we can do—all we can hope to do is make it easier for Harry.”

Taking the lead, Remus nodded at Snape. “Thank you, Severus,” Remus said. “We’re not unfamiliar with atonement ourselves.”

Snape nodded, a stiff admission of commiseration.

They’re all tied by their pasts, the lot of them. By the ghosts of their failures, their resentment, and their hatred. And now, they’re tied by the helpless way they watched Harry’s breathing become more shallow as each second passed.

“It’s not fair, Moony,” Sirius said, blinking his tears away. “I’ve only just found him—a piece of James and Lily. And he’s such a bright, kind boy. He didn’t deserve any of this.”

“I know, Padfoot,” Remus said. “I know.”

Sirius combed Harry’s hair out of his face. “You’re sure he’s not feeling any pain?”

“Not anymore,” Snape said. “I’ve...he won’t feel anymore pain. That, I can assure you of.”

“You said that’s his mind is locked,” Remus asked, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. “Are you tapping into his mind and replaying a happy memory, perhaps?”

“We could’ve made many more,” Sirius said, quietly.

“No. It’s a projection of his wishes,” Snape replied. “A future built on his own dreams and hopes for the future. It would be something he’d find closure from. Something that would put him to rest in peace.”

“That’s good,” Remus said. “Peace is good. Closure is good. They’re something we can give him that Prongs and Lily never got.”

They fell into silence. Too miserable, too exhausted, and too weary to attempt anything else.

Then—

“Si...rius…”

They bolted up, even though it was barely carried in the quiet.

“Harry?” Sirius found Harry’s hand. “Yes, Harry? I’m here. I’m right here.”

Harry’s breathing was so slow, the awareness that it could stop at any moment was acute and torturous. Hi eyes moved, ever so slowly, from Sirius, to Remus, then to Snape.

“T..Thank you…” Harry said.

And Sirius felt a light press—a flutter—as Harry squeezed his hand.

Sirius had always said that, under the fire that fueled his will to survive, Harry had a gentle heart.

It was in that moment, after sixteen years of fighting, that Hadrian Romanov took his last breath, and his eyes glossed over as his chest stopped moving.

Sirius’ sobs were inconsolable.

* * *

One minute he was running out of the catacombs, looking for a doctor the next he was in a parish.

He couldn’t remember entering the church, but he must have. Barged down the door at some point, too, the door was still swinging close from the force. There were glass-stained windows painting a colourful picture over the manic panic that was driving Tom to search every inch of the church.

Is this where Albus was? Tom looked down, suddenly realising that he was holding a piece of paper with an address scrawled upon it.

It must be, if he was here. Gut instinct was telling him that he was at the right address, and candles were lit at the start of every pew, as well as around the altar, so someone must be present. There was a figure of Christ on the Cross above them. Large, and more omniscient rather than comforting. Tom tried his hardest not to stare at it.

His footsteps knocked on the wooden floor as he approached the altar.

He was never one for religion. The world would soon end before he would kneel over a figure persuading him to sanctimonious actions. Not for a perceived ‘benevolent’ figure when he’s seen how zero mercy was spared for those on the streets, and when he knows that anyone can be brought low with the right circumstances. It was impossible, fickle and cruel creatures that humans were, for everyone to be saved.

But Tom thought of Harry in the train, and the way he’d prod at Tom when he was bored, and Tom could see the appeal of hoping for a miracle to counteract the impossible.

Oh, how Tom had _changed,_ and he didn’t know whether to rejoice or lament over that fact.

"How _soft_ of you."

Tom froze.

He hadn’t heard any footsteps behind him.

"One might think you aren’t my horcrux after all, Tom—so very... _emotional_ , " Voldemort said, spitting the word out like it had personally offended him. "I wonder, where _did_ you get it from?"

"You’ve gotten what you wanted," Tom said slowly, turning around. His other self—the original soul—stood a slight distance behind him, tall and menacing as if he hadn’t spent over a decade chained within a tomb.

Tom didn’t think he was here for just a quick chat.

"Harry will die before the day ends; what more do you want?"

Voldemort smiled—if his expression could even be called that. Any look appeared ghastly on his inhuman face—twisted to be a mere mockery of emotion rather than any genuine display of one—but he had been Tom, and Tom had been him, once.

He knew now why Snape hated it whenever he smiled.

"Funny you should ask that. You see, horcrux mine, I don’t _appreciate_ disloyalty. Occupied as I was, there was little time to deal with it. But now, with my enemy dying, my opposition near comatose with grief, I find myself suddenly...available."

Voldemort stepped forward. Tom took a step back.

"If you’re looking for Snape, he’s the other way."

"Oh, Tom, I didn’t mean Severus. He’ll be dealt with shortly as well, but you’re far more troublesome."

Run—he needed to run—to get Grindelwald to Harry, to get Dumbledore to distract Voldemort while they rid Harry of the decaying curse. More importantly, _Tom_ needed to get away.

He’d thought himself fortunate then, when Voldemort left on his own volition back in the catacombs—too high on his victory, his triumph, to care about Tom. But perhaps not—perhaps not.

From his long, billowing sleeves, Voldemort pulled out a thin, rather innocuous-looking diary.

A chill ran down Tom’s spine.

"I’ve found a new home for you, horcrux mine."

Voldemort stepped forward once more. This time, however, Tom stood still, eyes never leaving the diary.

“You won’t kill me,” Tom challenged. “I’m a piece of your soul.”

“ _Killing,_ ” Voldemort drew out, savouring the word. “Killing isn’t necessary.”

Immediately, Tom cried out and collapsed on the ground. Sharp, white-hot, teeth-gnashing pain smashed out his knee. He landed on his palms. As he tried to push his body up, his hand were kicked out under him, and his cheek smacked against the floor, a blunt kind of agony cracking his bones.

Before he could move his head up, the sole of Voldemort’s boots traps his head against the floor.

But he doesn’t stomp down. Instead, Voldemort tapped the tip of his boot on the side of Tom’s jaw without moving his heel.  

“You swore you’d never kneel or crawl for another,” Voldemort said. “How far you have fallen.”

Tom gritted his teeth, half from the pain, and half from anger that raged in him.

“Not going to beg for your life?” Voldemort asked.

Everything hurts. His head was ringing, and blood ran dripped down his face, smearing the floor. His heads went to clutch Voldemort’s foot, digging his fingers in. It did nothing to lighten the weight.

None of that mattered.

“Fuck you,” Tom spat out. “You think being immortal makes you impervious to mistakes? You’re just  as vulnerable as the rest of us even if you’re as unrecognizable! You hone and mould yourself to the point where each new strike creates more imperfections than work hardening. Harry will rise again. He will be your downfall. He will— _holding the key to thy doom, Ye shallst battle against time_ —”

Then Tom screamed as Voldemort slowly rocked forward, placing weight on his boot—and on Tom, feeling as if his head was squashed between two immovable clamps.

Voldemort ground his heels, and Tom’s screams spiked in volume. “Disappointment,” Voldemort said. “You’re nothing but a disgusting disappointment. Know that your last act—as poor, _sweet_ Harry waited for you in his last dying breath—was disappointing him. He will die knowing you never came back.”

As if in thought, Voldemort paused, unbothered by Tom’s clawing. “That is,” he said, “if he remembers you at all in the next life. They say you die twice; the first when your physical body takes its last breath, and the second when the last of your existence is forgotten. But then I wouldn’t know. You, however, my _dear_ horcrux.... ”

With one slender, sharp, unforgiving finger, Voldemort tapped the diary.

A sense of dread began to bubble in Tom’s stomach.

“Maybe he will find himself a wife next time,” Voldemort said. “Unremarkable, as you are. I can show you a peek from time to time if I’m feeling merciful. Certainly, it won’t change the fact that I’ll be his death in the next life. ”

“I’ll break out,” Tom said, choking on his spit. “I’ll find a way—you know I will. That bloody object won’t stop me! You won’t be able to keep me locked—”

Before he finished, the world around him shifted, elongated until Tom had to blink in fear of being torn along with his vision. All pressure lifted but Tom stayed immobile.

When he next opened his eyes, there was nothing but darkness.

Voldemort was right in that he would never kneel for another. Back when he had nothing left he swore that he would never crawl for scraps. He swore he would always carry his dignity, and never, ever, would he lower himself to the floor.

But he would curl on the ground for Harry. Even though his knees stung, and fire pricked down his whole body when he moved, Tom curled into a ball and mourned for Harry.

At some point, he realized it wasn’t only blood running down his face.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whump whump.


	8. Epilogue: Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new beginning.

In a cottage nestled in the forests of Devon, belonging to Noble family of Black, were two people; a young man with black hair and green eyes, and an older man with white hair and looks that hinted of handsomeness in his youth. 

Cups, once filled with boiling hot tea, were cold and still, forgotten for the tale told with fervent intensity and grand gestures from wrinkled hands. Across from him, the boy was  silent and listening, hands twitching occasionally. 

"--Hadrian Romanov was interred in Sirius Black's private family cemetery, about 10 miles south of us,” Gellert said, his German accent soft, barely noticeable after decades of living in Britain. “In fact, a week after he was tortured to death by Lord Voldemort." 

Harry licked his lips and looked away, his gaze anywhere but his guardian. "What happened to the rest of them? Did he kill them too?"

"Voldemort left France that night, taking Tom with him. Snape was able to use his newly regained magic to avoid detection and he, Lupin, and Black began to work together to avenge the Romanov family.”

“Snape, Lupin and Black are on good terms in the end?” Harry asked.

“Yes, they made a formidable team,” Gellert answered. “Once Lupin and Snape were able to convince Black of Hadrian’s identity, Black was overtaken with the desire to save his godson. And once they were too late... well...” 

Well indeed, Harry thought.

“Guilt is a powerful cohesive,” Gellert said, finally. “As well as a commanding motivator.”

“What happened next?” 

Gellert stood up and grabbed a book from the shelf. “They began to research Voldemort, his history, his life, why he was determined to kill Hadrian and his previous and future incarnations," he said as he returned to his spot next.  "Along the way, they recruited Albus and I into their plans."

Harry looked nervously at the book, hands itching to tear into its pages. For so many years he had wanted to know why his parents had been killed, and now, Gellert was telling him and his world had dropped out from under his feet.

Gellert opened the book to the first page with a picture.

It was Harry and his parents. 

"The Romanov family of Russia," Gellert flipped the page to a picture of a painting, "The de Villefort's of France, executed during the Reign of Terror;” 

He flipped to another section, “The Maclean family of Scotland, executed by hanging after Culloden,” 

Another page, “The Savoy's of Italy, they were killed by their bodyguards;" 

And yet another, with just words, "The Caradja family were pushed out of a window by unknown assailants; The bastard son of Charles I and his family were assassinated by an advisor. Voldemort had almost turned it into an art form, but he grew sloppy."

Harry's hand shook as he gently took the book from Gellert's hands and began to peruse through it. Pages and pages of writing and research, different handwriting everywhere, multiple people working together to solve this mystery. His stomach twisted in knots and sweat beaded on his forehead.

"What was the prophecy? Why does he want to kill... them?" 

Harry couldn't say it yet, he didn't want to acknowledge it; the phantom chasing his past, present, and possibly, his future. 

"We didn't know it for a long time, although we were able to get it from Tom when we found him. Tom’s allegiance were not clear at the time; we wanted to know for certain if the prophecy was true, or if it was one of Tom’s attempts to obscure the real prophecy. We discovered that Voldemort was not the person the prophecy had been told to. The  prophecy he received was incomplete.”

“Who was the person that heard the prophecy in the first place?”

“Merope Gaunt,” Gellert said. “His mother. And she kept part of it from him.”

"Monsters like that have mothers?" Harry muttered and drank from his cold cup of tea.

Gellert looked at Harry, his eyes mournful. "It's easier to think that monsters come from the shadows fully formed, but no. Some were born predisposed, some have family that raised them into the people that they are..." His voice grew soft, tinged with a sense of reminiscence. 

Harry pursed his lips. "Gellert... what's the prophecy?"

The man sighed and ran his fingers through his white hair before reciting,

  
_ "Born to a noble and peasant with scarlett hair and verdant eye,  _ __  
_ will be the hand of which your son will die. _ __  
_ Kill the boy in his infancy,  _ __  
_ And your son will have a future to see. _ __  
_ A cycle, a spiral, it continues for centuries, _ _  
_ __ The prince reborn despite his pleas."

  
Harry wanted to cry, but instead he sat there, knuckles white, digging his fingers into his knee. "So, I'm doomed to be killed forever?" he asked softly.

"Fortunately not. That was the prophecy that Merope told her son. There was more that she never shared," Gellert said with a small smirk. He pulled Harry’s hand up from his leg. “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

Harry sighed and turned to face Gellert. "If Merope never told him, then how do you know it?"

The man chuckled. "Albus was not one to dabble in necromancy, but Severus and I had no qualms about it. We brought her soul to us and trapped her in a state of unrest until she revealed the full prophecy. Took the better part of eight years before she gave up.”

“Eight years?!” Harry’s brows knitted together, “She held out for eight years? Why?”

Gellert shrugged. “Not sure. A misplaced and late maternal sense, perhaps. Maybe she wanted to protect her son, maybe she was ashamed of what he had done, but eventually, she broke. Eight years of existing in a state of purgatory in this realm nearly left her broken.”

"What's the rest?" Harry asked.

He didn’t want to think about some ghost being summoned for eight years of hell as they waited for her to break. He loved Gellert, he was his father now, but he didn’t want to know about his darker aspects. Harry was sure that Gellert and Snape had plenty of those.

" _ The cycle ends upon the seventh life _ __  
_ your son will die, torn by strife.  _ __  
_ The seeds are sown _ __  
_ his will, not his own. _ __  
_ Soul torn in twain  _ _  
_ __ Abel to his Cain. "

Harry frowned. He grabbed the book and flipped through it, counting each life on his finger before pausing and staring blankly at the wall. “Oh.”

“I take it you figured out what that means,” Gellert said softly. 

"This is number seven,” Harry said. “But... I don't understand how  _ I  _ can kill him. I don’t understand how I can do  _ anything. _ " 

Gellert put an arm around him and pulled him into a hug. “We will endure it like we endured everything else,” Gellert said. "Teamwork. Sirius, Remus, and Snape spent their lives researching Voldemort. Your parents knew that Voldemort was coming for you. They worked with Albus to ensure that whenever he attacked, and it was certain that he would, that he would be weakened when he did it. It cost your parents their lives, but they were more than prepared for that. It crippled Albus in his final years, too… but it was also a price he was willing to pay. This lifetime, it’s my turn. So, yes, we're in this together." 

Gellert pulled a small, plain, black book out of his pocket. "Even Voldemort is tired of himself."

Harry cocked his head to the side. "...What is that?"

Gellert handed the book to him, and the book hummed in his hands.

And Harry knew. 

"Tom."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, guys that's the end.  
> Finite.  
> 
> 
> To all the people where I said that it would update on Thursday/Friday....  
>  I lied.  
>  ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
